


Haven

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU after Purgatory, AU after Terminus/s4, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bad headspace, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Families of Choice, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of bad language, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Not Endverse, Past Rape/Non-con, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Castiel, Protective Daryl, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Rick, Someone stop me, Suicide, Survival Horror, Team Free Will, Tears, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, basically everyone is a badass, lots of violence like whoa, seriously they're all gonna snuggle like fucking puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 59,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is ending again.  It's nothing new.  What IS new, though, is its weapon of choice.  The dead walk, swarming the earth in their endless, mindless pursuit of living flesh.  Unable to stop the catastrophe before it starts, Team Free Will does their best to minimize damages.  During their mission, they encounter a ragged group of survivors led by a man named Rick Grimes.  Together, they may be humanity's last hope for survival, but there are other pressing needs as well.  Like safety, and shelter.  And figuring out how to do more than just survive in this new, crazy world.</p><p>SPN/Walking Dead Crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How the World Went to Hell, Again

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have seriously messed with the timeline here in order to mesh these two worlds. Imagine the Walking Dead timeline has sped up a bit, and the SPN timeline has slowed down and slipped sideways, and there you go. Basically, suspend your preconceptions of space/time while reading this fic, please. Also, I left out some elements from the SPN verse to mesh with TWD verse. So there’s that. Also, some people who are canonically dead are now alive, and vice versa. I do what I want.

 

 

Everything went to hell just outside of Louisville, Kentucky.  And that was just the beginning. 

The call came in from Garth and his hunter’s network sources, saying that there were demon omens flashing up all over the country, with a spate of sudden violent deaths and disappearances centering around Washington, DC.  They almost passed it up.  It was another case in a line-up of never-ending, and they were tired, all of them. 

They’d thought that they were safe, that they could finally rest after the years of fighting and hellfire, but they should have known it was too good to be true.  The Winchesters had been content to take a step back from the world of hunting in order to help Cas adjust to his new life in the limbo between powered-down angel and human, and to try to give Kevin Tran some semblance of normal after practically ruining the kid’s life.  So they’d retreated to the bunker and done their best to settle in, busying themselves with sorting through Men of Letters’ research, stocking their impressive kitchen, and allowing themselves to find peace in the little slice of home that they’d finally been offered.  It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, and the four of them were all they had left; they were family.

And so when the call first came in, they were willing to pass on it—let some other hunter deal with the demons.  For the first time, the Winchesters were willing to let it go.  And they did.  For days.  Despite the ever-increasing panic that accompanied the calls, the pleas for help because no other hunter knew how to handle what was happening. 

A single word changed everything.

_Croatoan._

Dean felt the word deep in his very bones, felt his heart stutter at the realization that no matter what they did in their lives, they would never truly be free of hunting.  No other hunter _could_ handle the demonic virus.  But it’s very mention had Dean feeling like he was going to puke all over his boots.  Even after all of these years, and all of the terrible things that had happened in between, he’d never quite been able to shake the horror he’d felt at witnessing Zachariah’s twisted vision of 2014.  Sammy giving in to Lucifer.  Friends dead or abandoned.  Cas fallen and utterly destroyed, looking at Dean through drug-hazed eyes.  Dean himself, cold and ruthless, willing to sacrifice his friends, his _family_ if it meant stopping the Devil, stopping the spread of Croatoan. 

Now it was happening again, for real, and not as a test run in some hick town so far off the map it didn’t really matter.  Cases of the mysterious disease were popping up all over the country, but something was different this time around—the demonic virus was mutating, adapting to its new circumstances.  By the second week of half-intelligible phone calls, the panicked voices of hunters relayed little more than screams and muddled descriptions of something that only half-sounded like Croatoan at all.  And all signs pointed to DC being the epicenter for this demonic outbreak—somewhere in the country’s capital was the source of the virus, and that was where the Winchesters knew they’d have to go if they wanted any chance of stopping the virus before it infected and consumed the entire country, or even the world.

But the Winchesters had fought too long, and sacrificed too much to sit back and watch the world destroy itself now.  So they did the only thing they could do, the thing they’d been practicing their whole lives to do: they packed their duffles, and stuffed the trunk of the Impala as full as they could with supplies.  Dean wanted to go alone at first, but of course Sam and Cas were stubborn sons of bitches and refused to let him head off without them.  So the three of them piled into the Impala, determined to put an end to Croatoan once and for all.  Kevin was given express instructions to man the bunker and sift through the Men of Letters’ research in search of a cure for the demonic virus.

The drive to DC was supposed to take about a day.

But like I said, everything went to hell outside of Louisville.


	2. Static

 

 

The radio started to go staticky just before St. Louis.  For miles before that, it had been all “ _We interrupt the regular broadcast,”_ and _“the CDC says there is no reason to panic,” “everyone is advised to stay at home if possible,”_ then the closer they got, it switched to _“rumors are surfacing that marshal law has been declared in the capital,”_ and because they were traveling through the Bible Belt, _“the time has come for all of us to repent for our sins.  The world is ending.  God is judging us.  The righteous will triumph and enjoy eternal life.  The sinners will burn.”_ That was about the time Dean wanted to just turn the radio off and pop in his Metallica tape, but Sam smacked his hand away from the radio, chastising “We need to know what we’re headed for, Dean.  You don’t have to like it.”

The Impala ate up the miles under her tires, a dark soldier in her own right, carrying with her two brothers and their best friend, or rather—an exhausted but determined Righteous Man, the man who once threw himself into the pits of Hell to save the world, and a powered-down angel who opposed all of Heaven and Fell for the sake of humanity.  Their mission was supposed to be simple—get to DC as fast as they could, destroy the originator of the Croatoan outbreak, and halt the spread of the virus.  It was a regular day at the office, until it suddenly wasn’t.

 

 

 

 

They encountered their first military blockade about 60 miles outside of Louisville on I-64; a make-shift cement block wall, guarded with a line of camouflage Humvees and a bunch of men in fatigues toting automatics.  The last thing Dean needed was some random soldier popping his trunk and finding their weapons stash, so he swung north on the I-69, until he could hook up with Hwy 150 in Hoosier National Forest. 

Dean had spent the majority of his life criss-crossing the United States on every highway and back road imaginable, and he sure as hell knew more than one way to get to the east coast.  Dean was an expert at not only getting by on less well-known pathways through the country, but also at dodging the law wherever he went.  Even so, the air inside the Impala was tense as they skirted the military blockade and made their way north.  Sam’s hands were fisted tight in the fabric of his jeans, and his jaw was clenched; Dean knew he was worried.  Not just for them, but for everyone who was defenseless out there, left to fight against something they had no chance of defeating.  Cas was a silent shadow in the back seat, straight-backed and alert, leaning slightly forward so that he could peek over the front seat and scan their route through the windshield.  Dean’s nerves were so tight he was almost worried that he’d snap something in his neck; his knuckles were white where his fingers wrapped securely around the steering wheel.  As they entered the cover of large trees that shadowed the road ahead, Dean felt a cool, calming hand rest on his shoulder, the tips of soft fingers just brushing the back of his neck, and he allowed his muscles to relax just a fraction.  Whatever else happened, Dean wasn’t alone—he had his family with him.

The first sign that something was terribly wrong was the line of cars parked or idling on the pavement, tail-lights blazing in the gloom of the forest, and the cacophony of worried conversation and shouting that accompanied the swarm of people who had exited their cars to see what the hold-up was.  Dean slammed on the brakes as they rounded a bend just in time to keep his Baby from plowing into the rear end of a minivan that was so packed with people and junk that Dean could barely see anything through their rear window.

Sam braced himself against the dash and squinted into the shadows in an effort to discern the problem.  Everything seemed to be confused chaos, though.  He reached out, blindly, and grabbed ahold of Dean’s sleeve.  “Dean, what the hell is happening?  There’s no way the virus could have reached this far already, right?”

Suddenly, though, the comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder tightened into a vice and Cas’s deep, gruff voice ground out sternly: “Dean.  Back out of here now.  Get us as far away from this place as you can.”

“Yeah, got it.”  Dean was just pulling the Impala around, forced to skirt a new line of cars by driving with one wheel off the shoulder, when they heard the first choppy spatter of gun-fire not far in the distance, followed by terrified and anguished screams.  “Shit!”  Dean floored it, kicking dirt into the air as he hauled ass away from the traffic jam.

They were less than a mile away, still using the solid steel bulk of the Impala to shove their way through on-coming traffic, when the distant bomb-blast rocked the ground underneath them and caused the car to shudder and swerve, just missing the trunk of a tree.

“What the holy fuck was that?!”  Dean demanded, as he put the Impala in reverse, spinning the tires, before they gripped gravel again, and they launched forward, speeding through a cluster of by-standers that had been knocked sideways by the blast.  He jammed his thumb at the radio, flipping channels rapidly until the static cleared minutely, just enough to hear a terrified voice shout through the speakers “They’re bombing the city!  They’re bombing the—!”  Then the radio crackled, and static filled the space again.

They backtracked until they could pick up Hwy 56—a podunk, two-lane highway headed toward Salem.  For the next twenty minutes, after the radio gave out, they felt the shudder of explosion after explosion, and they were silent, shocked with the realization that somewhere along the way, the situation had gotten so fucked up that the military had started bombing civilians. 

“I’ve seen this before,” Dean finally said, after they’d dodged the worst of the traffic.

“What do you mean?”  Sam asked, brows furrowing.  Cas’s thumb stroked the back of Dean’s neck.

“In uh… 2014.  Well, when that dickbag Zachariah dropped me in _his_ version of 2014.  The world was overrun with Croats.  The military didn’t know what to do, but they had to try to contain it, so they started quarantining cities and bombing the hell out of them.  I saw the headlines on old newspapers.  It… well, if I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.  I never thought I’d have to see it for real.  We stopped it, man, we averted the apocalypse.”  Dean clenched his jaw and glared through the windshield at the blur of green and brown flying past.  “Each us of fucking _died_ to make sure this never happened.”

“This isn’t the same, Dean,” Cas rumbled from the backseat.  “We did stop the apocalypse.  This is…something else.”

Dean laughed, but the sound was hollow, rough.  “Sounds to me like the world is fucking ending, Cas.  Doesn’t make a difference how it goes.”

Sam shook his head and looked out his window.  “That’s not true.”

 

 

 

 

They encountered their first Croats about 20 miles north of Louisville, or at least, that’s what Dean thought they were.  They didn’t look like any Croats that he’d ever seen before, not in River Grove, Oregon, and not in 2014.  In both of those cases, the Croats had looked like everyone else.  They’d been smart and fast, super strong and violent.  Their whole goal had been to infect as many as possible and spread the virus.  It was demonic in nature, and it could be traced by sulfur in the blood, a symptom that showed up not long after a person had been infected.  The worst part of the virus was that the host wasn’t themselves, but they were still conscious, still aware, and they could scheme to achieve their ends.  The… _things…_ they encountered now were none of those things.

They saw one at first, a woman dressed in a ragged, blood-stained nightgown, shuffling down the side of the road aimlessly.  As they pulled closer, they saw that her left leg was twisted at an impossible angle—broken—but still she continued to walk on it.  She turned toward them when she heard the growl of the engine, and it was very obvious that she was _dead,_ or at least, she should have been.

Dean slowed down to get a good look at her, and she shuffled toward them, arms outstretched, fingers grasping.  She lunged forward and plastered herself to Sam’s window; he jerked back and slid across the seat toward Dean.  The woman’s hands clawed at the window almost senselessly, and her mouth gaped wide, hungry.  She moaned, a deep, ragged, haunting sound from deep in her chest.  “She’s dead.”  Cas murmured, from the back seat.

“The hell she is!”  Dean barked, inching the Impala along steadily.  “Look at ‘er, Cas!  She’s still walking along.  She actually…well, she looks like she’s trying to get in here to eat Sam.”

“Yeah, so let’s keep moving, Dean.”  Sam gritted from between clenched teeth.

“She’s not gonna get you, Sammy.”  Dean mumbled, but he was distracted by the woman’s dead, glazed, eyes.  “Might as well learn a thing or two while we can.  See what we’re up against.”  He frowned as the woman continued to claw at the glass.  “The other hunters were right.  The virus mutated.  This isn’t Croatoan…. Not anymore.”  Dean stopped the Impala and the woman jerked to a stop with it.  “We should get out and take a look. Sammy, Cas…got your weapons?”

“Don’t get out of the car, Dean!”  Sam barked, just as Dean opened the driver-side door with a creak.

Cas followed closely behind him, unfolding himself from the back seat.  The dead woman paused in her frenzied clawing and turned her attention toward the new noise.  She limped around the Impala toward Dean and Cas, still slow, jaw unhinged almost like a snake ready to gobble down a meal too big for its body.  Casually, Dean slid his favorite Colt 1911 from the back of his jeans, the ivory grip shining bright against the overcast gloom of the day, and he pointed it at the woman’s good leg.  Without even flinching, he pulled the trigger and with a bang, the bullet tore out a chunk of the woman’s thigh.  She barely paused.  Dean pulled the hammer back again and aimed the pistol at her gut this time, firing before she could take another step.  Inside the car, Sam flinched, but the woman didn’t.  Next to Dean, Cas cocked his head in interest.  “She’s not even reacting.”  Cas observed.

Dean didn’t even bother replying.  Just aimed the pistol one more time, at the woman’s head, and pulled the trigger.  The bullet tore through her head and she dropped at Dean’s feat with a gurgle.  “Well, that’s interesting.”  Dean murmured.  He stared down at the now, _truly_ dead body, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on, when Sam’s shout jerked him back to reality.

It must have been the gunshots that drew them.  A whole herd of Croats began to stagger out of the tree line across the highway, moaning and gasping, growling and stretching fingers toward Dean, Cas, and Sam.  Their mouths hung open, teeth gnashing and clacking in hunger.  Some of them must have come from the chaos of Louisville because they were torn up, some with pieces missing.  Still, they drew steadily closer.  Dean sucked in a breath.  “Son of a bitch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles* This is gonna be so much fun ;)


	3. Louisville Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it bad how much fun I'm having writing this? Seriously, it's all of my angsty dreams come true. Enjoy :)

 

 

 

Dean would never forget the sound the bodies made as he plowed through them with the Impala.  Their only saving grace was that the Croats were slow, and the Impala was made of heavy metal that took a lot of force to stop once it got started.  Still, the crowd of mangled, moaning Croats had pressed close to the Impala, faces and hands sliding against the windows, desperately grasping for the people inside, nails scratching at the sleek black paint.

The chrome, headlights, and windows were all smeared with blood when they finally managed to extract themselves from the crowd of the walking dead.

Even after they’d sped away from that horrifying scene, Dean had seen the Croats staggering behind them on the highway, still grasping for what was too fast for them to catch.  But Dean knew that it wouldn’t take many more than that to stop the car, to push back hard enough that all the horsepower under the hood of his Baby wouldn’t be enough to get them the hell out of there.

They had to slow down after that.  Though the smaller highways weren’t as packed with panicked civilians and abandoned cars, there were enough obstacles that Dean couldn’t just push through at the pace he was used to.  He had a terrible feeling in his gut that it was going to take them longer than a day to get to DC.  That was time they didn’t have, not if current events were anything to go by.

They rolled on slowly, dodging parked cars, and people running around screaming, or begging for information.  Dean noticed Sam and Cas watching them as they drove by, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of giving them his attention.  Occasionally, another Croat crossed their paths, stumbling dumbly from the tree line.  One seemed to be missing half of its neck—dried blood colored the man’s shirt and jeans, and his head tipped precariously to the side.  He wasn’t bothered.

It was the smell that nearly got to Dean.  The wind was blowing east, following them, and it brought with it the acrid stench of burning.  If the earth-trembling explosions of the bombs hadn’t been enough, the dense black smoke that rose behind them told Dean that Louisville was burning.

What was the population of Louisville?  How many hundreds of thousands of people had died today because Dean hadn’t paid attention to a warning when he’d actually gotten one? _Two fucking weeks ago._   He’d condemned them to death by choosing to do nothing.  Dean grit his teeth and pressed the accelerator down harder.  Just another fucking nightmare he’d never be able to wake up from.

 

 

 

 

They didn’t run into real trouble again until they tried to cross the Ohio River and found the bridge blocked with abandoned cars, a couple of which were on fire, though eerily enough, there were no people around anymore.

They rolled to a stop at the edge of the bridge and Dean stared disdainfully through the window.  “Well, shit.” 

Sam huffed next to him, shaking his head at their luck.  “Is there another way around?”

“Not without going out of our way, and even then we still gotta cross a bridge.  No telling whether it’ll be better or worse further up.”

The back door creaked open and Cas ordered “Stay in the car,” as he stepped out, his trench coat flapping in the breeze.  Dean watched as the angel made his way across the bridge to survey the damage, and then began to slowly and methodically push the cars out of the way.  Dean had known Cas for years, had seen him do things more astounding than this, but somehow he never got used to just how strong, how _badass_ he could be, even powered down like he currently was.  After the last car was pushed across the bridge and out of the way, Cas strode back to the car, climbed in the backseat, and said, “Alright, we can go now.”

 

 

 

It was starting to get dark by the time they reached the outskirts of a small town called Eminence, but they realized pretty quickly as they drove through the town that there would be no stopping there.  The roads were deserted, and most of the buildings in the town were dark with the exceptions of dim lights.  Some people had even boarded up their doors and windows.  Dean took them all past a roadside motel that looked utterly abandoned.  “Guess we’re sleeping in the car tonight, guys.  Hope you don’t mind.”  Dean said, as he continued on through the town.

He didn’t stop until they reached an open stretch of highway, and then he pulled the Impala off to a small, tree-obscured alcove where hopefully they’d go unnoticed by any Croats and the craziness of the world, at least for a night.

“I can’t believe everything we’ve seen today, and we’ve seen a lot of crazy things in our time.”  Sam mused from the passenger seat where he’d slouched down but still stared numbly out of the front windshield. 

“I don’t really feel like talking about it, Sam.”  Dean crossed his arms and angled his body toward his own window.

In the backseat, Cas cleared his throat and murmured, “I do not technically need to sleep…it would be a waste for me to stay back here when one of you could use the seat to stretch out on.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, thrusting his thumb toward the backseat.  “You heard the man, Sammy.  Get back there and stretch out.”

Sam knew better than to argue, so he and Cas wordlessly switched places.  It was still cramped in the back because of Sam’s crazy-long legs, but it was a good deal better than scrunching down in the front seat, so he didn’t complain.  He simply folded himself onto the seat as best he could and tried to fall asleep.  In the front seat, Cas had pressed himself close against the passenger-side door so as to take up the least amount of space that he could.  Despite his efforts, though, the fact remained that his vessel was that of a 6ft man.

“Dean, you can stretch out as well if you’d like.  I don’t mind.”

“Thanks Cas, but I’m good here.”

Even with his assurance that he was fine as he was, during the night, Dean inevitably slid sideways into the empty space on the seat and ended up stretching out so that his head found the soft comfort of Cas’s lap.  Cas didn’t mind, not at all.  After the insanity of the day, and the desperation and guilt he’d felt rolling off of Dean in waves, he was happy to have him close.  It was a natural thing, almost thoughtless, for Cas to lift his hand to Dean’s head and run his fingers soothingly through his hair.  Dean slept on through it, and somewhere along the way, Cas fell asleep too, despite the flare of Grace left inside of him that meant he could live without it.

 

 

 

An indeterminable amount of hours later, Cas was roused from his strange sleep by the sound of something scratching against the window.  Cas’s eyes flickered open to find a couple of Croats—an old man and a young girl, pawing at Dean’s window, staring blankly at them as they did so.  Cas regarded them for a moment, still utterly bewildered by what they were facing.  In all of his eons of existence, he’d never encountered anything like this.  He’d seen zombies before, but never on a scale like this, and never where enough people knew about it to start staging a military intervention.  There was an awful feeling in his gut as he looked on now, like maybe Dean was right.  Maybe, despite their best efforts, the world really was ending.

Cas gently shook Dean awake and nodded toward the window.  “It’s time for us to move on.”

 

 

 

 

The further east they moved, the worse things got.  Cars littered the sides of the road, many of them already having been shoved off by someone or something.  A disturbing number of them had been lit aflame and burnt out, leaving nothing but charred black husks of metal behind.  Occasionally, they passed a crowd of people walking along the road seemingly confused.  Once, Dean stopped the Impala and asked “What happened here?”

A middle aged man frowned at Dean, shaking his head over the group of people with him.  “I…I don’t know what it was.  It was like…like a nightmare.  People came, but they weren’t… _people_ anymore, you understand?  Some folks tried to run, and they got _bit._ Bit!  Who does that to another person?”  He shook his head again and raised his hands helplessly.  “I don’t know what’s happened, except the world’s gone crazy.  We’re hoping to get some information soon.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I guess…well, I guess we’ll just follow this road ‘til we get to the interstate.  Some of these folks were headed to Cincinnati.  So I guess that’s where we’re still headed.”

Dean nodded.  “Good luck, and you folks take care, you hear me?  This…this might sound weird.  But those… _things…_ they only stop if you get them in the head.”

The man looked horrified now, mouth hanging open in shock.  “What are you talking about…in the head?!  Those people are obviously sick or something.  We can’t, I couldn’t….”

Dean shrugged, before he rolled his window back up, offering the parting words “Just think about it.”

As they pulled away, Sam advised from the backseat: “Dean…I think we should stay away from cities, if we can manage it.  I have a feeling it’s more of Louisville.”

 

 

 

 

They stayed to the smallest roads they could manage.  There was an old beat-up atlas in the glove compartment, of course, but mostly Dean knew his way around without it.  He knew that as long as they kept moving in an easterly direction, they’d eventually get to where they were going.  DC was gonna be damned hard to miss, even if they _did_ get off course. 

Only occasionally they saw other people, or more Croats…for lack of a better word.  Dean watched them warily as he drove past, still utterly confused by what he was seeing.  Most of them were very obviously maimed fatally, but others, more disturbingly, seemed healthy with the exception of a bite mark or two on their bodies, just the faintest trace of blood.  Dean tapped his hands on the wheel and mused, “I wonder if it still passes with blood.”

Sam shrugged in the backseat.  “Dunno.   Should I give Kevin a call and see if he’s found anything yet?”

“Yeah, do that.”

Sam pulled his phone out, dialed, and then frowned down at the machine.

“What?”  Dean demanded after he chanced a glance in the rearview mirror, not liking the look on his brother’s face.

“No service.”

Cas frowned, just a slight twitch of his lips and a furrowing of his brows.  “Perhaps it’s simply a local outage.”

Sam pursed his lips and regarded his phone.  “I dunno, Cas.  I usually get pretty good coverage.”

Dean snorted and gripped the wheel tighter.  “Or maybe the government bombed more than Louisville and we’re all royally fucked.”

Sam flashed Dean one of his patented bitch faces.  “Don’t talk like that, Dean.  I’ll try again in a little while.”

 

 

 

 

They never got ahold of Kevin.  They never got cell service back.  And as they made their way slowly across the rest of Kentucky, they realized why. 

The world had gone more than crazy.  What they saw was a weird mashup of simultaneous homicide-suicide.  The world was trying to off itself by turning people into murderous monsters that seemed to drag their feet across the earth ceaselessly in their pursuit of food.  And based on some of the more graphic things they’d seen, food meant other people. 

That should have been the worst of it.  After all, what could be worse than seeing your fellow humans morphing into the walking dead, hungering to eat their neighbors?  What was worse?

Seeing the evidence of it splashed on every fucking road they drove down.  It was terrible and terrifying, and even the Impala’s occupants were shocked by it.  Dean, who had been a torturer in _Hell_ was disgusted by some of the things he saw, like the body of a young girl lying on an otherwise pristine patch of grass next to the road, her guts strewn messily around her.  Sam had spent the equivalent of _years_ trapped in a small cell with Lucifer for company, and he was visibly shaken at the sight of a bloodied baby’s car-seat lying abandoned on the side of the road, like it had been wrenched from the tipped-over sedan nearby.  They had no words for it, though.  No words.  Only Cas ventured, “I have witnessed the worst of God’s wrath on this earth.  The Flood.  The Plague.  _I_ have been responsible for the utter destruction of cities, and have wrought bloody civil war.  But….”  He sighed, and the sound was ancient, weary.  “But this is different.”


	4. At the Corner of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm evil. I know.

 

 

 

Eventually they had to abandon the road altogether and drive along the shoulder, or brave the weeds at the side of the road.  The usually pristine paint of the Impala was splattered with mud and blood from where they’d been forced to drive through mud puddles and stinking, squishy puddles of God knew what.  Mud caked the tires and the underside of the car—it flaked off in loud, clunking chunks as they made their way onto dry land again.  Dean cringed at the sound of weeds and trees, and sometimes desperate, grasping fingernails, scratching the carefully maintained paint job.  Despite how it made him grit his teeth and shudder, he knew it wasn’t so bad.  It could be much worse.  It _had been_ much worse, several times.  After all, Dean had rebuilt his baby from the ground up more than once.

The border of Kentucky and Ohio was a war zone.  It resembled something like Dean imagined ‘Nam had looked after a deadly round of napalm.  Buildings tore up and burnt, cars driven through wood and brick walls.  Land scarred with loose dirt and torn turf from where bombs had obviously gone off.  Dead bodies strewn amid the rubble.  Other dead bodies up and moving around them, moaning and gasping.  Living people running scared, shooting and hacking at the Croats that came after them.  It was worse than 2014.  At least then, Dean had been able to blame the Devil for it.   

 

 

* * *

 

 

The realization came slowly, following on the tail end of a thick dose of denial.  Dean stopped his Baby at the edge of a massive pile-up, as far as the eye could see.  “We’ve never gonna make it,” he said, “not like this.”

Sam sighed from behind him and sat forward.  “So what do you want to do?”

Dean laughed and the sound grated at his companions because it was hollow and pained.  “This ain’t about what I want, Sammy.  This has nothing to do with wanting.”

Sam ran a tired hand through his too-long hair.  “You know what I meant.”

Dean allowed his hands to slide from the steering wheel and slump in his lap.  “It’s always gonna be like this, isn’t it?  The world goes to hell, and it’s up to us to fix it.  No matter what we gotta give up to get it done.”

“We’ve already given up everything we have to give, Dean.  Our lives.  Our souls.  Each other.” Sam said quietly, reasonably.

In the front seat, Cas turned his head away to stare out the passenger-side window.

“My point is,” Dean murmured, voice weary, “that we shouldn’t have to.  It shouldn’t be up to us to do it.  But it always has been, and it always will be.  And we’re gonna keep doing it, aren’t we?  Hell’s gonna call, and we’re gonna give it what it wants to keep the rest of the world from sliding in.”

Sam shrugged helplessly from the back seat.  “Everything ends, Dean.  Eventually.”

“Not everything,” Cas rumbled.  His fingers were twisted in his trench coat.  “Some things are destined to come back, over and over again, no matter how painful it is.  Some things are meant to suffer.  It’s their nature.  Or a punishment.  I don’t even know anymore.”

Sam rested a hand on Cas’s tense shoulder, but the angel didn’t relax. 

“Here’s the deal,” Dean said, staring forward at the jumbled mass of cars, and the two slow-moving bodies that wandered, trapped, through them.  “We can either turn back now—make our way back to the bunker and hope things are better there.  Hope that we can find the information we need to stop this, or end up watching the world burn around us from our hole in the ground.  Or….”

“Or?”  Sam pressed.

Dean clenched his jaw.  “Or we make our way to DC on foot from here, and hope to hell it isn’t too late by the time we get there.”

Cas sucked in a startled breath, as if he suddenly just realized what Dean meant, the truth that Dean and Sam had been contemplating silently for the last few hours.  “You mean…?”

“Yeah.”  Dean gulped.  “Ain’t got much of a choice, do we?  This whole mess is my fault in the first place, right?”

“It’s not your fault, Dean.”  Cas rushed to assure.

“You don’t think so?”  Dean turned hard, guilt-ridden green eyes toward the angel’s fierce blue ones.  “We got the first call more than two weeks ago, Cas.  If we’d done something….  If we’d gotten off our asses and just _gone_ to DC in the beginning….”

“There’s still no guarantee that we would’ve been able to stop this!”  Cas growled, turning fully to face Dean.  “You cannot keep blaming yourself for these things.  The weight of the world is not yours to carry, Dean!”  Cas slid closer on the seat, until Dean was forced to retreat an inch, or share breath with the angel.  “There were other hunters who went, Dean.  Other, capable hunters, who were lost to this chaos!  This isn’t Croatoan, not anymore.”

“So what do you suggest we do, then?”  Sam asked, because Dean didn’t seem able to voice the question.

“I suggest we do our best,” Cas murmured.  “It’s always been enough before now.”

The car was silent for a while after that, until Dean finally sighed—a large exhalation of air that seemed to deflate him, and he put the car in reverse.

“What are we doing?”  Sam asked, brows furrowed.

“Finding a better place, somewhere that’s more out of the way.  I ain’t leaving her here, Sam.”

 

 

 

It took them a while, but finally they found their way to an out-of-the-way, dirt crossroads on the outskirts of a little town called Jackson in southern Ohio.  Dean laughed, but it sounded sick, as he opened the door and crawled out, calling behind him, “Fitting, isn’t it, Sammy?  We always find our way back to a crossroads, don’t we?”

Sam didn’t think the joke was funny, but he decided not to say anything about it, either.  Mostly because Dean was sort of right. 

They were quiet and somber as they slung their duffles over their shoulders and loaded up with everything they could carry from the trunk.  It felt like a funeral.  It sort of was one.

After they’d packed weapons and holy water, and ammo into their pockets, and under their layers of clothes, Dean locked the doors and laid a hand on the hood of the Impala.  His eyes blazed with the fire of war, the sort of fire that had fueled him through all of Purgatory for a year.  He pointed to the sign at the crossroads and gritting his teeth, he ordered: “Remember this—we left her at the corner of 4 Mile and Antioch.  Got it?” He demanded.  Both Sam and Cas nodded.  With a last, solemn pat, Dean whispered “We’ll be back for you, Baby.  I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think. Comments bring me life...and motivation XD


	5. A Long Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a short chapter, but it needed to be written this way. I promise the next one will be much longer, and much more...intense. Consider this chapter prep for future angst :)

 

 

 

They learned a lot along the way. 

There was no real sense trying to avoid roads—the Croats were everywhere, and so were the refugees.  Tramping through the countryside away from highways just meant knee-high weeds and thick, squelching mud that clung to their boots and their pant legs; that dragged them down and proved to be a general pain in the ass. 

Things kept getting worse the further they got.  Houses boarded up—some with the boards pried away from the doors and windows, smears of blood marking the gaps.  Cars abandoned, burnt-out, overturned.  Dead bodies strewn randomly across the ground.  Scorch marks from fires in towns and empty fields. 

The Croats were slow-moving, and mostly dumb.  Their eye-sight was shit, and their noses didn’t seem to work properly anymore.  But noise still got their attention, which was dangerous enough, but usually the bang of a gunshot or a shout for help attracted more than just one.  They wandered seemingly aimlessly, but sometimes they joined up in herds that trampled and killed anything in their path.  Anyone could become a Croat.  If one bit you or even scratched you badly, you could become a Croat.  If you died…you became a Croat, no matter what.  Croats didn’t feel the cold, or heat.  They didn’t feel pain.  They had no need to stop or sleep.  They had no memory of who they were, and they did not recognize anything from life.  Headshot was the only way to really kill a Croat.

Dean, Sam, and Cas scavenged for what they needed as they went.  It was easy to bust into an old Gas n’ Sip for supplies when they needed them—that is, if the place hadn’t been picked over already.  Weapons were harder to come by, because the stores that sold them were some of the first that were raided by survivors when they realized the world was going to shit, real fast.  But they were good at conserving ammo, and taking care of their weapons.  After all, Dean had managed to hold onto a single, deadly weapon through the impossible landscape that was Purgatory.  Compared to that, this was nothing.

The nights were the worst.  Fire attracted Croats.  Even if it was just a little one, just big enough to cook some food over before it was smothered, the small spark of light against the sudden, and eerily dark backdrop of a world without electricity was startling, and worked like a beacon.  They learned that lesson real quick.  But even camping without fires was a test of their sanity.  The lack of light couldn’t hide the screams of people being attacked, the gurgle of throats ripped out and innocents choking on their own blood.  It didn’t hide the sounds of survivors being eaten in the darkness.  The hunters and angel tried to ignore it sometimes, but it grated at every single instinct in their bodies.  Many times, they made their way through the darkness to do their best, to save whatever poor soul had cried out, but they were usually too late. 

They had a mission that was bigger than all of them, but they were still the same people they’d always been.  Saving people, and hunting things was still who they were.  It had to be.  So they did what they could, when they could. 

And somehow, they still managed to keep moving east.

It took them more than a month to reach DC.


	6. Knee Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few chapters left before our two worlds collide, but I promise, it's coming.

 

 

 

_Blood slicked his hands, and his heart beat in time to the deadly movement of muscle as he slashed his way through the mob of heavy, grasping, moaning bodies.  Too much.  Too much.  He was knee deep in the shit.  Up ahead, a bright light flared, blasting through the gloom of the shadowed high-rises.  Not strong enough.  Not strong enough!  He bared his teeth and hacked ruthlessly with one hand, fired with the other, though his hand slipped on the grip because of all the blood.  “No!”  He roared, the sound ripped from his throat.  The warm press of Sam at his back tied him to reality, but just barely.  “NO!”_

_There were too many, they were being overwhelmed.  They were all gonna die in the fucking street.  Every.  Single.  One.  Of.  Them._

_Cas’s terrified scream rang in his ears.  “DEAN!!!!”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing brought the apocalypse home more than seeing the country’s capital in ruins.  If the towns up until that point had been a lesson is abandonment and neglect, Washington DC was that lesson’s dark cousin.  It was _not_ abandoned.  No, it was _teeming_ with life and the walking dead, both.  But it was not the same, either.  It had looked the end of the world head-on, and been transformed by it.  What was it that one German philosopher had said?   _If you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back at you._ Well, the country’s capital, Washington DC, the epicenter of it all, had not only stared down the darkness, the darkness had most certainly looked back—and liked what it saw.  DC seemed to have embraced its own destruction, reveled in it.  Sam gasped at the sight that he beheld—charred buildings, barricaded streets, graffiti, dead bodies everywhere—and felt his eyes water with overwhelming grief.  “Look at it, Dean.”

“It’s not that bad, all things considered.”

“How can you say that, Dean?  Look at it!”

“Dude, have you been to DC in the last ten years?  Place looked a lot like this _before_ the world decided to end…again.”

“This is no joking matter, Dean,” Cas murmured, as he sidled up next to the brothers.  “There is a darkness in this city that I have not felt on our journey thus far.”

“Sorry Cas,” Dean said, casting his gaze out at the dark shadow of the city, “but sometimes it’s either laugh or cry, and I’m not crying today.”

Sam seemed mollified by the explanation.  He hitched his shotgun up over his shoulder and said “So where do we start?”

 

 

 

 

 

**_THIS IS NO MAN’S LAND._ **

The words were scrawled in messy red paint—not blood, at least, Sam didn’t think so—on a non-descript brick building on the outskirts of Bethesda, one of DC’s many suburbs.  It looked sort of like it had once been a school.   He hoped that wasn’t true. 

The message sent a shiver down Sam’s spine, but it wasn’t the only one.  He’d mentally catalogued them all along the way, and he expected to see a lot more before they were through.  In Clarksburg, West Virginia, someone had carved “ _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,”_ into the welcome sign of the town.  And on Hwy 48, someone had blacked out a large sign, and painted over it in pristine white letters: “ _And many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt—Daniel 12:2_.”  Frankly, Sam was surprised they hadn’t seen more of Revelations plastered all over the place.  He was thankful though—he really hated that particular book.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean, Sam, and Cas made their way stealthily through the streets of Washington, DC, headed toward some mystery destination at its center.  The reports from before had been vague—they knew the outbreak had started here, but not exactly _where_ or _how._ Didn’t look like there was anyone left to fill them in, either.  Just a mess of dead bodies, destruction, and the tell-tale signs of gangs (maybe gangs of survivors) marking out their territories by tagging buildings, signs, bridges, and the like.  Honestly, Dean didn’t give a fuck.  He’d never made it his business to police human beings, and he didn’t intend to start now, when the world had already gone and tried to blow its brains out.  In fact, based on the things he’d witnessed thus far, he was ready to say ‘fuck it’ and head back home, to take care of his own. 

Mankind didn’t change…Dean knew that.  Still, it never ceased to amaze him—the terrible things people were willing to do to each other as soon as they thought they could get away with it.  Why did they keep trying to save the world?  What was it, exactly, they were so damned determined to save?

 

 

 

 

 

Occasionally, a glint of light would reflect off of the top of a building in a strange way, or they would notice brief movement in a window.  There were still people here.  DC wasn’t dead.

Mostly, Dean ignored them.  If there were survivors hiding out, well then good—good on them.  He hoped they knew what they were doing, and had enough supplies to get themselves through, for however long this lasted.  But sometimes, he heard a shout, or a crash echo from somewhere in the city.  No telling whether it was people or Croats making the racket.  He was sure they’d find out one way or another, though.

Sam walking silently beside him, and Dean could practically _feel_ his brother mourning for the human race.  After everything that Sammy had given up for the world, it was no wonder, really.  Dean decided not to mention it, though.  Just like he didn’t mention the smears of blood all over the place, the wrecked cars clogging all of the roadways, or the glimpses they got of Croats dragging themselves mindlessly along all around them.  Cas was a dark, protective shadow at their backs, bringing up the rear.  Dean had no way of comprehending what this chaos might mean to a creature as unfathomable as an angel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They came out of nowhere, slipping from the shadows of alleyways, and coming into sight along the tops of buildings, all toting automatic weapons that were pointed directly at Dean, Sam, and Cas, a quarter of a mile west of the National Mall.  There were enough of them that they had the trio surrounded before they were able to do a damn thing about it.  They were all alive—small blessings—but Sam had a feeling they’d have no compunctions over taking out a few strangers. 

“Put down your weapons and hand over your supplies!”  A tall, sunburned man decked in leather called from the front of a run-down grocer.  “We got a lot more than you do, and we ain’t afraid to shoot.”  They were rough-looking men, survivors—if that was the word for it.  Sam liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, and he figured that some of these men at least did what they did now out desperation, and the strong desire to survive.  Some of ‘em, though…they’d probably lived their lives just praying for something like this to happen.  A world without rules, a world without limits…people could do what they wanted to, as long as they could get away with it.  He had no doubt that any single one of these men would gladly put a bullet in their heads just for the pleasure of stripping them of their supplies. He had to stop himself from snorting at the irony.  Figured—it was the end of the world—and they were gonna die in the middle of a fucking robbery.

Next to him, Dean raised his hands, charming smile on his face, and called back “Hey fellas, we don’t want any trouble.  We’re just passing through.”

The man smiled back nastily.  “Well, it ain’t your call, boy.  Put the gun down now.”

Dean’s smile widened and Cas squinted just behind him, shoulders twitching.  One of the men (of the 14 that Sam counted) aimed his rifle at Cas and barked “Don’t move!  I’ll blow your damn brain out!”

Cas’s voice was calm, reasonable when he advised: “You should let us go.  We are all in a…precarious situation, here.  There are dead crawling all over this city.  A single gunshot might be enough to bring them.  None of us want that.”

“Yeah?  You threatening us, smart guy?” The leader sneered, “Franklin—this guy talks again, put a bullet in him.”  The man narrowed his eyes, assessing.  They were focusing their attention on Cas now, which was probably the worst thing they could do.  First—Sam wasn’t even sure it’d kill him if they shot Cas, and second—that meant they were no longer paying attention to him or Dean.   Dean glanced sideways at Sam, barely moving, barely breathing, but Sam caught his look easy enough.  After years of working together, hunting together, living in each other’s pockets, they didn’t need to talk to have a conversation.  And right now, Dean’s message came through loud and clear: _We ain’t giving up our supplies to these sons of bitches._

Sam nodded—they’d do what they had to, but most of what was in their duffles wouldn’t even be of any use to these men.  And their mission was bigger than this.

Maybe Dean had prayed the words, or maybe Cas just got tired of all those men pointing guns at them, but in the next moment, he took a step forward, and one of their robbers panicked, aimed too wide, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed ominously in the space and for a moment, every single man held their breath, hoping, praying that it would go unnoticed.  But the Winchesters never had any sort of luck, and after a tense minute, they heard it.  It was a stomping, growling, moaning stampede of pungent decay.  The Croats poured from between the buildings, dragging their feet but moving faster than some of the others, maybe goaded on by the promise of so much fresh meat.

“Oh my God,” one of the men breathed, before he jerked his gun sideways and fired the first shot into the wall of walking dead.  That’s when the square erupted in screams and shouts, and the rat-a-tat-tat of the automatics, interspersed with the sharp report of the pistol that Dean carried.  The mob of Croats surrounded them quickly, and _just kept coming,_ filling in the spaces between buildings.  For the first time in a long time, Sam felt helpless.  The sheer number of Croats was overwhelming.  They didn’t have enough _bullets_ to deal with this.

Some of the men on the rooftops bolted, knowing that it would serve them better to conserve their bullets and wait out the storm.  The gang members on the ground pressed close to the Winchesters, their backs together, forgetting their quarrel so that they could focus on the new threat.

Cas’s eyes blazed and he stormed forward into the fray, away from Dean’s side.  He parted the crowd, throwing his hands out to grasp at the dead, and a white light burned through them, turning their brains to ash.  The Croats dropped at his feet, and more came on, in a stream of never-ending, all around them.  The gang members who realized what Cas had done began to scream.  Even through the swirl of shoot, shoot, shoot, Sam knew they must be wondering if Cas was maybe worse than the Croats.

The Croats were attracted to his Grace—it was a beacon to them, too, and they circled Cas easily.  Sam had never really had the chance to appreciate his skill as a soldier before, but even in the midst of the chaos now, he was stunned. 

Cas moved through them like water, every single movement intentional, graceful.  His trench coat fanned out behind him, and to the sides when he spun to lay hands on more of the walking dead.  He was a force of nature.  Unstoppable.  Epic.

Sam’s gun clicked uselessly and he pulled a new clip off his belt, shoving it into his gun while Dean covered him for the precious few seconds the movement took.  A couple of the robbers weren’t so lucky, and their screams ricocheted off the close buildings as the Croats snatched them with sharp, bony fingers, and tore into their hot flesh.  But the rest of them couldn’t stop, couldn’t help—there were too many Croats, and even more were still coming.  They were being overwhelmed, and Sam knew it was going to end badly for everyone very soon.

All around him, guns blasted on, picking off Croat after Croat in a spray of blood, bone, and brain so thick that it coated the hands and faces of the living, and threatened to jam their weapons.

Some of the men ran out of ammo and had to switch to close range weapons—clubs and knives, and a few machetes.  They sliced and hacked, doing their best to stay alive. 

Sam didn’t notice at first—he was too busy trying to keep the Croats from taking a chunk out of himself or his brother—but Cas was moving further and further away from them, into the swarming heart of hungry dead.  “They’re following that freak!”  One of the robbers shouted, “Let’s make a break for it while we can!  South!  Run south!”

Dean protested with a scream of rage, and swung his gun toward the man, but it was no good, he was already moving.  The whole crowd of them were moving, and they were dragging Sam and Dean with them.  “Cas!”  Dean shouted over the other screams and moans, and blasts of dwindling gunfire.  They were all running out.  They didn’t have much time left.  “Cas, come back!”

“Dean!”  Cas screamed, and Sam could still see him spinning and hitting, just barely, above the heads of the mass of Croats.  “Dean, Sam—run!”

“Cas!”  The word was a desperate, dual plea, ripped from both brothers’ lips. 

“DEAN!”  Cas shouted, and the ground itself seemed to quake with the word.  “Shut your eyes!”

Somewhere in the gray depths of Sam’s memory, he recalled hearing something like that once before, and he obeyed without even thinking—plunging himself into darkness in the middle of their enemies.

“CAS!”  Dean screamed.

A second later, the stones of the city trembled, and everything went white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles maniacally*


	7. Not Leaving Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole shamelessly from canon. Regardless, I hope you enjoy :)

 

 

 

_“What the hell was that?!”_

_“It was like a nuke went off!”_

_“Move, move, move!”_

_“Hey, get back here!  Come back!”_

_“Shoot the son ‘a bitch!”_

_“I can’t!  I’m outta bullets!”_

_“Get him!  Get him!”_

_“We need to move!  Those Eaters are gonna be on us again in a minute!”_

_“Leave ‘em!  They’re good as dead, anyway!”_

* * *

 

 

 

Sam peeked through the gap in the tall metal doors where they were chained shut.  It was quiet outside—the herd of Croats had passed by hours ago.  But Dean and Sam had gotten pulled further and further away from where the battle had gone down, so far away that they could no longer see any evidence of it.  Their robbers had been all set to finish what they’d started, too, but they’d run out of ammo, and Dean and Sam had made a break for it, outrunning them, and finding relative safety in an old warehouse that still held abandoned packing boxes and a forklift.

Twenty feet away, Dean sat with his back against the brick wall, knees pulled up to his chest, head bent, and he prayed.  Sam couldn’t hear him, but then he didn’t have to in order to know what he’d be saying.

It had been too long, they both knew that, but they couldn’t risk leaving the warehouse at the moment, not with their ammo almost gone, and no idea where their would-be-robbers had gotten to.  Sam clenched his jaw, angry at what had happened, using that anger to push the growing swell of hopelessness to bay.  Dean didn’t have to say it out loud for Sam to realize the city was done for—whatever was happening had happened.  What were they even doing here, anyway?  What had they really thought they could do?  They didn’t even know where to start trying to fix this—if it even _could_ be fixed.  And now…now they’d lost Cas.  No.  Not _lost_ him.  They’d gotten separated.  Lost sounded so…permanent.  That’s what people said when someone they loved had died.  _We lost him._ But Cas wasn’t dead.  Cas was an angel.  Cas had bounced back from shit _way_ worse than this.  And anyway, Sam had seen the light of his Grace explode back there in the street.  Cas had…what?  Blown the Croats up?  Used his Grace to wash the demonic virus from their bodies?  Taken them all with him?  _No._ Cas was fine.  He was fine.  They were going to get him back.

 

 

 

 

_Cas…I don’t know if you can hear me anymore but…well, I’m hoping that you can.  You need to get yourself somewhere safe.  Take cover, and_ don’t move.  _Sam and I are safe at the moment.  We’re regrouping in an old warehouse at the corner of Prospect and 36 th Street, near the river.  We’re running low on bullets, so we’re waiting for the sun to go down so that we can move a bit easier.  Cas, buddy…we’re coming for you, you hear me?  We’re coming.  Just…stay where you are.  Be smart.  Be safe.  _

Dean forced himself to calm his breathing, and to loosen the grip he had on his hands, because his fingers were growing numb.  He could see the light beginning to dim through the crack in the warehouse door where Sam continued to stand guard. 

_This is Purgatory all over again, isn’t it, Cas?  You and me…and now Sam…trapped in a land filled with undead sons of bitches who want us dead.  Well you know what?  You and me…we both made it out of there, Cas.  It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t go how we planned, but we both made it.  We survived.  That’s what we do, right?  We survive.  Somehow.  I’ll keep praying to you, man, the whole way.  We’re gonna find you.  I promise._

Dean heaved a sigh, jaw clenching, shoulders squaring.

_Remember what I told you back then, Cas?  In Purgatory?  Same goes for now.  I’m not leaving here without you._

 

 

 

 

The sun took its goddamn time going down, but once it did, they packed their things and took to the street once more.  It was easier than they expected—traveling from one block to the next, backs pressed to stone and brick, keeping to the shadows, and careful not to make too much noise.  Hell, they’d been doing this their whole damn lives, right?

Croats still wandered aimlessly through the streets, mindlessly bumping into abandoned cars, shuffling between buildings, and gathering in places where recently dead bodies still lay strewn across the ground, not quite picked clean yet.  In some places, small fires had broken out—either on purpose, or from neglect, Dean wasn’t sure.  But the light attracted the Croats.  Dean and Sam made sure to avoid those areas.

They were almost out of ammo.  Dean had almost a full clip left, and Sam had one and a half, but still…that was a hell of a lot less than they needed to have.  They’d scavenged for weapons at the warehouse and though there wasn’t a single bullet to be found, they _had_ picked up a couple crowbars, which would prove useful in close quarters, and wouldn’t make nearly as much noise as a gunshot would.  Dean had added his to the duffle for Cas—he preferred the machete that he’d managed to pack when they’d been forced to leave Baby behind. 

 

 

 

When they finally managed to make it back to the scene of their battle, Dean wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or panicked.  That blast of light they’d seen had most definitely been Cas’s Grace.  He knew because there was a small crater—just a bit more than the width of a grown man’s stance—in the center of the street, and a ring of dead Croats, some piled on top of each other, surrounding it.  The blast wave of Grace seemed to literally have burnt them out.  That was the good part.  The bad part was that Cas wasn’t there.  Dean gripped the handle of the machete tightly in his hand, and knew that he should be thankful.  It meant that Cas wasn’t necessarily dead.  _No._ Dean thought, or maybe prayed—what the hell was the difference, at this point?  He figured if Cas _could_ still hear prayers, then he’d been getting a constant stream of thoughts and reassurances since before Dean and Sam had left the warehouse.  _You’d better be alive, Cas.  You hear me?_

The only evidence of the dead robbers that they could see were the splashes of blood and gore that liberally covered the street.  The bodies though…they’d either been eaten or reanimated, and Dean didn’t particularly want to think about either possibility for too long.

Dean and Sam were methodical about it, but quick.  They started at the center and worked their way out, searching buildings for any sign of Cas, and sometimes clearing them as they went.  They were as quiet as they could, despite having to kick in a few doors, but Dean’s mind was a litany of: _Now we’re entering the grocery store…headed upstairs.  Three Croats, taken care of.  Headed to the little pharmacy across the street now.  Nothing.  We’re coming, Cas.  Hold on.  Not leaving here without you.  Pawn shop….nope.  More guns.  Ammo.  No time.  We’re moving up the street._

They worked for hours and hours.  Nothing.  Well, not _nothing._ Plenty of Croats, and even some guns that they picked up.  But no sign of Cas.  They had to pick up the pace.  The sun was going to be up soon, and then it would be harder to search without being noticed.  _Don’t care how long it takes.  Cas…buddy, help us out here.  Give us a sign._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_…Not leaving here without you._ The prayer, conveyed in the tired, gruff, desperate voice of Dean Winchesterwashed through his being.  _We’re coming._ Castiel twitched and groaned.  His body hurt…his head, and his Grace…everything hurt.  _Nothing._ The word was full of frustration and pain.  Castiel was trapped in a gray fog that he couldn’t seem to claw his way out of, but the voice was insistent.  Castiel might not remember where he was, or what he was doing, or even _who_ he was, but he’d never forget the voice of Dean Winchester.  _Cas…._

Castiel fought his way to the surface, grasping at the familiar voice, determined to get to Dean.  Dean…he needed him.  _Another building down.  Clear._ He couldn’t move, it hurt too much whenever he tried.  Why did it hurt so much?  _Cas…. Give us a sign._

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open in the darkness, and he rolled over, groaning as his joints popped and cracked in protest after having spent a night stretched out on the cement floor of a cramped storeroom.  “Ugh….” Castiel moaned as he pushed himself up off the floor.  His arms and legs were still shaky.  Now that he was awake, though, he could remember everything that had happened.

They’d been surrounded by Croats, penned in, running out of ammo, and he’d just _known_ that if he didn’t do something, Dean and Sam were going to die, and so were all those other men who had tried to rob them.  So he’d centered himself, and released a blast of Grace that had sent a shockwave through the neighborhood and had burnt the disease right out of those dead bodies.  But the expenditure of that much energy all at once had come with a price.  Castiel had been exhausted, and weakened, and it had taken everything just to keep him on his feet.  By the time the dust had settled, the Croats all around him were dead, but the Winchesters were no longer there.  Castiel didn’t have time to go after them.  He’d felt the darkness of unconsciousness pressing in on him, and he knew that he needed to find shelter.  Fast.

He’d barely made it into the bar before his vision started going dark.  There was a Croat in there, slouched behind the counter, but Castiel had made quick work of it with his angel blade.  He was too exposed there, though.  So he’d stumbled into the kitchen in the back, and then further into the storeroom, which had been ransacked and was empty except for a pack of crackers that had been crushed underfoot.  He’d barely made it, barely gotten the door pulled closed behind him, before his legs had gone out from under him and he’d succumbed to the darkness.

Now he was awake once again, and taking stock of himself, he was relieved to find that he was uninjured, just exhausted.  Now he had to find the Winchesters, and have faith that they were also unhurt.  Castiel shoved the storeroom door open and gave the bar’s kitchen a cursory glance before he stumbled into the back alley, Dean’s prayers calling _Cas…making our way down Decatur now.  Come on, man._

Castiel glanced at the street sign closest to where he’d emerged from the bar, lit up with the dim light of the rising sun.  The sign read Bancroft, but he thought he’d remembered seeing Decatur nearby.  Castiel wondered how much time had passed—was it the next morning, or had he been unconscious for days, recovering from that expenditure of Grace?

Castiel moved slowly down the alley and into the main street, turning toward the faint pull of Dean’s soul.  He could usually feel it so strongly, but even that had been dimmed by his exhaustion.  Still, though the pull was weak, he followed it.  He felt rusty, and his mouth was dry.  His stomach grumbled and he frowned.  He knew that feeling, remembered it from when he’d been human.  He was hungry…and thirsty.  Well, he’d known that tiring himself that much would have side effects.

A couple Croats moved toward him when they noticed him making his way slowly down the road, but exhausted or not, Castiel was a warrior, and he dispatched them quickly.  The sun rose slowly, illuminating the destruction of the city little by little.  Castiel was saddened by what he saw.  It was worse than they’d thought.  The city was a shell.  Castiel could sense nothing good left in this place.

_Cas!_ The word echoed in his mind, almost as though he’d heard it echoing against the brick buildings that rose all around him.  But he felt a tug along with it, desperate and worried.  Castiel lurched forward, pushing his legs to move as fast as they could.  When he swung around the corner onto Decatur Street, he saw them—two shadows in the early morning light, guns poised in front of them as they made their way methodically down the street.  “Dean….” 

One hundred yards in front of him, Dean’s head snapped up and focused on him, just for a second before both brothers were rushing to his side, Dean yelling “Cas!”  like they weren’t trapped in a city full of enemies.  Castiel smiled wearily at them, allowing himself a breath of relief, before he was suddenly crushed against Dean’s body, wrapped up tightly in his arms.  “Cas….Cas.”  Castiel hugged back, pressing his face into the side of Dean’s neck where it was warm and soft.  “God, where were you?  What happened?”  And then just as quickly as it had happened, Dean let go of him and took a step back, his hands now moving frantically all across Castiel’s body, looking for any sign of injury.

“I’m fine, Dean.  Just tired.”

Sam smiled from behind his brother’s shoulder.  “It’s good to see you, man.  What happened?”

Castiel shrugged under Dean’s continued ministrations and focused on Sam.  “I released enough Grace to dispatch most of that herd, but it weakened me considerably.  When I was able to see clearly again, the both of you were gone, and I knew I would soon lose consciousness, so I had to find shelter.”

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Dean growled, his hands finally stilling and coming to rest on Castiel’s shoulders.  “Where were you?”

“In the storeroom of a bar.  I just woke up.”

Dean met Castiel’s eyes for a moment, just long enough for Castiel to see all the pain and worry and love and relief in their depths, before Dean bowed his head.  “We were real worried about you, Cas.  But….”

“I know, Dean,” Cas assured him, gripping Dean’s shoulders in return.  “I heard you.”

“You heard me?”

“I did.  And… thank you.  For everything.”

Dean smiled sadly but looked at Sam instead of Castiel.  “Yeah.  Well…let’s get out of here.”


	8. The Devil You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy, and remember, comments are love! :)

 

 

 

Cas passed out again almost as soon as they reached the warehouse.  The place was still secure and it was the safest place the Winchesters knew to hole up in until they figured out their next move.  Which…well, they really had _no_ move.  Their plan had involved marching into DC with the hope that all wasn’t lost, and that it would be evident that they could make a difference.  But they were beginning to realize that despite their hopes, DC and everywhere else they’d seen didn’t exactly seem on board with being saved.

Cas wasn’t the only one who was exhausted.  They all needed the rest.  Dean had wanted to keep watch while Sam slept, but Sam argued until Dean finally gave up and passed out on a pallet stacked with broken down cardboard boxes, which he pulled next to Cas before he flopped down, close to the angel, but not touching.

Sam alternated between peeking through the chained doors at the empty, dirty street, and staring at his slumbering family.  Sam couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened, either to the world or to them.  It was all just too much.  And the thought of losing Cas?  Yeah, it had pushed both brothers to a new level of desperation. 

Sam wasn’t ready to cut his losses and give the world up for gone, though.  No.  It deserved better than that from all of them.  And after the years of fighting and sacrificing to save the world and everyone on it, after _throwing himself into the Cage with Lucifer_ there was no way that Sam was tapping out yet.  No way that he ever would.  Not really.  But he couldn’t deny that it was overwhelming—crushing, really.  Even when Lucifer was wreaking havoc on the world, Sam had never seen anything quite so… _bleak_ as this.

They just needed to regroup.  Change tactics. 

They needed information.

 

 

 

 

 

Cas slept through the day, into the night, and until sunrise the next day.  When he finally woke up, he was _hungry._ Lucky for him, during the time he slept, Dean and Sam had swapped watch several times, and had also found something to occupy themselves with while they waited for Cas to wake up. 

Frankly, Dean was surprised that the heated argument between he and Sam over supplies hadn’t jolted Cas awake, but the angel must have been even more drained than he’d let on.  And didn’t _that_ piss Dean off, too.  They had a pact, he and Cas—and Sam too for that matter—to at least _try to be_ more honest with each other.  And Cas not admitting that he was seriously messed up by that stunt he pulled?  Yeah, they were gonna need to talk about that.  But not now.  Right now they had other things to deal with.  Like stocking up on food.  And bullets if they could find any.  Because you know what?  Dean was fucking brilliant with a machete, and Sam and Cas were both badasses who could hold their own in a crowd of Croats, but Dean would feel a hell of a lot better traveling through DC if they had fully loaded _guns_ as a backup for when shit inevitably hit the fan.

He and Sam fought about it for almost half an hour in raised whispers (because _yeah,_ there were still a FUCK TON of Croats out wandering the streets) but finally Dean made Sam see reason.  They needed supplies.  Food at least.  Because they’d quickly eaten through their stash of energy bars that they’d brought with them.  And they couldn’t afford to wait, because _who knew_ when Cas was gonna finally wake up?  They couldn’t take the chance that things would get worse between then and now. 

“Look Sammy, can we just face the facts here for a minute?  Okay, I’m not being reckless.  But this is basic need we’re talking about.  We need to eat.  Probably all three of us.  And if we want to make it any further, we’re gonna need some bullets.  I mean, it’s bad enough that we’ve got freaking _zombies_ to deal with out there, but now we gotta worry about crazy assholes too.  Alright?”

“I understand, Dean, I do.  I just think….”

“What?”

“I think we should wait until all three of us can go.”

Dean glanced at Cas’s still form, huddled under his bloody trench coat.  “What if we can’t afford to wait that long, huh?”  Dean refocused on Sam, letting his eyes travel the length of Sam’s body, which was bruised and bloody, and he looked fucking _terrible._ “When’s the last time you ate, Sammy?”

Sam clenched his jaw, but didn’t have an answer for Dean.

“That’s what I thought.  Look, I’ll be quick.  We both know I’ve been in worse shit than this.  I know what we need, I know where I can find it, and I’ll move fast.”

Sam shifted on his feet, and suddenly he looked like a little boy, hopeless and lost in the face of so much tragedy.  “Dean….”

“I promise I’ll be back, Sammy.  Look after Cas while I’m gone.”  And with that, Dean grabbed his gun, his machete, and his emptied duffle before slipping out into the eerily quiet street.

 

 

 

 

 

He was lucky.  So lucky.  He only came across two Croats while he was on his errand, and both were elderly and even slower-moving than the others.  Dean grimaced at them before dispatching them quickly, willing himself to forget that one side of the man’s face was gone, and that someone had ripped the old woman’s throat out.  He found them both in a nearby convenience store, bumping into the shelves that held what remained after the obvious chaos of people snatching what they could. 

After Dean had dealt with the Croats as efficiently as he could, he quickly scanned what was left of the store’s merchandise.  He swept batteries into his bag, followed closely by a couple more utility knives.  Then he snatched a bottle of aspirin off the floor and added that as well.  The place was unsurprisingly low on food, but Dean found enough to get them by.  More energy bars, and some bottles of water and coke.  A couple bags of beef jerky.  Honestly, they’d gotten by on less before. 

The bullets were a no-go, though.  Dean searched almost a whole block before he realized that it’d have to wait.  He didn’t want to be out any longer than he had to, his promise to Sam weighing heavily on his mind. 

When Dean slipped back into the warehouse, Sam let out an audible sigh of relief and said “He hasn’t woken up yet.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Cas rejoined the world of the conscious, he and the Winchesters got down to the business of trying to figure out what to do next, since their original plan had gone so spectacularly to shit. 

“The way I see it, we can either go back to the bunker and hope that Kevin’s found something, or we can stay in DC and see if we can figure out how this all started.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, regarding his brother skeptically.  “And how will knowing how it started help us?  You saw it out there, man.  It’s worse than we ever imagined.”

Sam scratched the back of his head and frowned.  “Yeah, I know.  I just meant… well, what else is there for us to do?”

“We can’t just turn back now,” Cas said in between bites of his energy bar.  “It was hard enough to get this far.  We probably won’t get a second chance.”

“He’s right.”  Sam added.

“We need to make sure we’ve done everything we can here before we leave.”

“So what do you propose?”  Dean asked.

“We need more information.  You’re right.  It’s not enough anymore to know what started this.  We need to know how to stop it.  And even if it _can_ be stopped.”  Cas took a long swig of water and sighed, shoulders deflating under his trench coat.

“So how do we go about getting the info we need?”

Sam shifted on his feet and grimaced.  “I, uh, I think I have an idea.”

 

 

 

 

 

Dean knew Sam had a point, and it was a good point, but halfway through the ritual, he acknowledged to himself that _this was a bad fucking idea._

They didn’t even have all of the necessary ingredients, so they’d had to improvise out of the stash of supplies Sam had smuggled in his duffle.  Which was ridiculous.  Honestly, they were working on faith more than anything that the spell would even work. Which, _HA_ , wasn’t that just the most ironic fucking thing in the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He appeared two feet to the left of the devil’s trap that Cas had sketched on the concrete of the warehouse floor, dressed smartly in all black, and composed as ever.  “Hello boys.  Cas.”  An amused quirk of the brow accompanied Crowley’s words as he regarded the Winchesters and the weapons they held casually.  “What can I do for you?”

Sam frowned, but didn’t bother lowering the demon knife he held.  “Why aren’t you in the devil’s trap?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Your summoning spell was flawed, which I’m sure you know, because honestly, that was a mediocre attempt even for you lot.  But I heard the summoning, and I came anyway.  Consider this a courtesy call.  Now.  Back to business.  What do you want?”

Cas cleared his throat and shuffled slightly on his feet—he was still tired—before he said “We need information.”

“Well, that’s nice and vague, isn’t it?”

Dean growled and had to hold himself back from taking a step toward Crowley, the ever-smarmy bastard.  “We need information on the shit-show that’s taking place out there.  So ‘fess up.  What is it?  What did you all do?”

Crowley sighed and folded his arms.  “Really, Dean, you never learn, do you?  If I was involved with this, why would I tell you?  Use whatever is inside that thick, caveman skull of yours, would you?” 

Cas reached out and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder before Dean even had the chance to take the step toward Crowley.  Cas knew him too goddamn well.  “Fine.  Whatever.  Then why the hell did you show?  Just to gloat?”

Crowley regarded Dean with a pitying look.  “Would you believe me if I said this wasn’t us?  That it was you lot.  Humans.  Your government.  Your CDC.  Taking samples of demon viruses and not controlling them properly.  Allowing them to mix with a deadly strain of flu, and then being moronic enough to let it get into the air vents.”  Crowley spread his hands helplessly.  “Sorry boys, but you can’t pin this one on me.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam conceded, albeit with an air of suspicion, “But where is your crew?  It looks like the end of the world out there after all, and people are desperate.  Figured they’re easy pickings for you and the other demons.  What wouldn’t the survivors give to have it all end?”

“Oh no, Moose,” Crowley said seriously, “even _we_ are out of our depths here.  This is the real deal.  End of the world stuff.  I’ve called my demons home.  We’re just going to sit back and watch.”

“Can’t imagine that’s good for business.”  Dean snarled mockingly.

“Have you seen the world lately?” Crowley chided with another raise of his eyebrows.  “We don’t even have to lift a finger.  Everyone’s headed south sooner or later with this state of things.  It’s not even fun anymore.”

“So that’s it, then?” Sam asked skeptically.  “You’re leaving and taking the demons with you?”

“More like, I’m using the time to put my house in order.  You might want to try it sometime.”  And with a snap of his fingers, Crowley was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple more chapters and our two groups of people collide! *cackles*


	9. Battening Down, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day?! What?! (It's because I love you all.)

 

 

 

Two days outside of DC, something potentially worse than Croats happened.  It began to snow.  The white, fluffy flakes had perhaps never inspired such fear in mankind as it did when a living human being was faced with the thought of long, cold days and nights and the inevitable piling up of snow and ice while they were without shelter.  Cas had recovered from his weakness in DC, and so was unbothered by the sudden cloudy darkness and temperature drop, but his companions were far less immune.  Even under their layers of flannel and jackets, Dean and Sam began to shiver, and Sam cast his gaze upward toward the heavens, shielding his eyes against the snow.  “We should stop soon,” he said, voice ringing oddly in the cold, heavy air.  “It’s only gonna get colder and darker.”

Dean adjusted his duffle strap and turned to face his brother, Cas halting next to him.  “We haven’t gotten very far today, Sam.”

Sam shook his head, snowflakes catching in his dirty, too-long hair.  “We aren’t gonna get much further if we keep on in this, either.  Look, Dean, I want to get back just as much as you do, but we have to be practical about this.  Let’s just wait out the snow and then carry on, alright?”

Dean would have argued further, but at that very moment, Sam suffered from a full-body shiver, and the words died on his lips.  “Fine,” he conceded instead.  “Let’s find someplace warm.”

_Someplace warm_ ended up being the hayloft of an abandoned barn two miles away.  The place was in rough shape, and looked like something out of a horror film, but then, everything else did at this point too.  And anyway, there were no Croats and the roof didn’t leak, so it was as good a place as any.

Dean wouldn’t admit it, but it felt good to settle on the second-story loft and strip his wet, snow-dusted jacket from his shoulders.  Dean wasn’t in bad shape—in fact, he was pretty fit—but he was tired and his whole body ached, from his feet and knees all the way up to his weary shoulders.  He hadn’t been this utterly exhausted since Purgatory.  It wasn’t just the duffle that weighed him down.  The weight of all those lives lost, and the countless others ruined or in jeopardy clung to him and pulled him down incrementally more every single day, with every single step he took away from DC.  He hadn’t done enough.  He hadn’t been able to stop it.  This was something Dean Winchester knew he’d never be able to atone for, no matter how long he lived.

Still, despite the crushing weight of guilt, he could still find peace in the knowledge that even if the whole world went to shit, he still had Sammy, and he still had Cas.  His _family_ was still alive, and with him, and sometimes, that was the only thing that mattered.

Sam sighed with simple pleasure when he settled against the barn wall and stretched his legs out in front of himself.  Aside from these soft noises, it was too quiet in the barn, all sound stifled by the weight of the snow falling outside. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a soft, warm, dry place to spend the night, and that was better than a lot of people had, so the Winchesters and Cas settled in to wait out the storm. 

 

 

 

The storm had passed by the next morning, and Dean, Sam, and Cas headed out again, their boots crunching in the few inches of white that covered the ground.  It was still cold out, but not too bad once they got moving. 

Even the Virginian countryside was a mess.  It was nothing like the ruin of DC, but it was so damn quiet, desolate, _abandoned._ It gave Dean the chills just thinking about it.  The silence meant that everyone who’d lived here was either dead, hiding, or gone.  None of those possibilities inspired much hope. 

There were the usual signs of the Croatoan outbreak, of course: cars abandoned on the sides of roads, or crashed against trees.  What was left of supplies randomly scattered across the ground in strange places.  Smears of blood, and the remains of dead bodies.  The occasional Croat, wandering aimlessly across a field in search of fresh meat to lay into.  But for the most part, it was much better than the city had been, and except for the patches of forest they had to cross, they were able to see great distances all around them, and it was easy to avoid any of the walking dead. 

It wasn’t quite so easy to avoid survivors, however. 

Since leaving DC, they’d come across several groups of survivors—some of them wandering aimlessly themselves, just trying to keep themselves alive, others headed to a specific location with the hopes that life might be better there.  None of these meetings had resulted in violence, though the potential of violence always hung thick, and unspoken, on the air around them.

Dean knew that at any moment, he or one of the other survivors could draw a gun, make some demands, and things would end in a bloodbath.  Thankfully, though, the people they’d come across since leaving the city were desperate, but honest.  At least, they seemed to be good people—or had been, before everything went to shit.

 

 

 

 

On one occasion, they ran into two sisters—Laura and Jaime—who had cautiously struck up a conversation when the Winchesters had stumbled upon them in an abandoned road-side gas station.

“We don’t want any trouble,” the woman who later identified herself as Laura said, as she pointed her gun at Dean, brown eyes narrowing.  Jaime directed hers at Sam, but her eyes kept shifting between him and Cas, like she couldn’t decide who might actually be the bigger threat.

Dean raised his hands and said “Neither do we.  Just looking for some food.”

Laura eyed Dean for a moment before saying “So if I lower this gun?”

“We’ll get out of your way.”  Beside him, Cas and Sam both nodded in agreement.

“We can’t trust ‘em.”  Jaime said, not even bothering to whisper.

Laura gave a slight nod in acknowledgment of her sister’s words, but didn’t take her eyes off of Dean.  “You’re right.  We can’t.  But that doesn’t mean we should shoot them, either.”  She swallowed and slightly adjusted her grip on the gun.  It was obvious to Dean that she was new to handling a gun, but not incompetent.

“We honestly don’t want any trouble,” Sam said, and he flashed the girls his puppy eyes.  “We were just hungry, and saw this place.  But look—we’ll get outta your hair if it makes you feel better.  We know there’s no reason to trust us.  It’s rough out there.”

Sam’s eyes and empathetic words must have been what changed their minds—no surprise there—because a moment later, Laura lowered her gun and motioned for her sister to do the same.  “No.  Grab some food before you go.  It’s cold outside and there’s not another store around for miles.  We know.  We’ve been walking forever.”

With the stand-off over, Sam busied himself picking packages of food off of the nearby shelves, while Dean and Cas faced the sisters.  “Been travelling long?”  Dean asked.

Jaime snorted and brushed her short brown hair away from her face.  “Long enough.  We were part of a larger group, but then the zombies came, and it was crazy, and me and Laura were left behind.”

“So now it’s just the two of us,” Laura said with a barely-disguised grimace marring her young face.  “That’s alright though.  Can’t really trust anyone except Jaime.”  She glanced at Sam, who was inspecting a bag of pretzels.  “Where are you boys headed?”

“Kansas.” Dean answered.

“Wow.  That’s a long way away.”

“Yeah, but we got family there.”

“You think your family’s still there?”  Jaime asked.

“We gotta hope.  Nowhere else for us to go.”  Dean brushed a hand back through his hair and sighed.  “How about you two?”

“We’re headed for Fort Monroe.  A couple we ran into told us that there’s a camp there.  It’s safe.”

“Fort Monroe,” Dean mused, trying to remember ever hearing about the place before.

From the other side of a shelf, Sam raised his head and said “Fort Monroe was a Union fort, built before the Civil War.  It’s an awesome fort, really,” he explained, eyes going distant like he could actually see the place, “built on the Chesapeake Bay, separated from the mainland by a couple large causeways, and then the Fort itself has an inner keep that’s also surrounded by water and separated by causeways.”  He frowned and plucked something off the shelf, coming back to himself.  “But it was decommissioned, wasn’t it?  Isn’t it like…a park with museums now or something?”

Dean didn’t even bother asking how his brother knew all of that—Sam read some really random shit in his free time—but he had to admit that his interest was piqued by this new information.

Laura squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze at Sam.  “Yeah, that’s the place.  And I guess it’s not a military base anymore, but the defenses are still there, right?  I mean, an island’s gotta be safer than the Virginia countryside.”

“Especially with winter coming,” Jaime added.  “We figure one of the worst things we could do is get trapped out in the middle of nowhere, without any safety, when the snow hits.  We’re cutting it close enough.”  Cas frowned at her, as though he hadn’t really considered the full threat of winter before, so she elaborated: “If the zombies don’t kill you, frostbite, sickness, or exposure still can, you know.”  She regarded them all with a hint of pity, or maybe it was sympathy, before she said “Y’all should find somewhere to batten down for the winter, and soon.  The clouds out there look bad.”

“You could come with us,” Laura added hesitantly, almost like she couldn’t believe she was making the offer after just having met them.  It was funny the kinds of things good people were still willing to do, even when hell reigned around them.

“They have a point, Dean,” Sam said, coming from around the shelf with a duffle now full of food.

“No,” Cas rumbled, finally speaking up.  “Fort Monroe is not…ideal…for the three of us.” 

Dean opened his mouth to argue, or at least to open up the discussion, but Cas sent him one of his _looks_ and Dean clicked his jaw closed.  Instead, he forced a smile and said “Thanks for the offer.  It means a lot.  But uh, Cas is right.  We really need to keep heading west.  But good luck.  Really.”

“Yeah,” Sam added, shooting Dean and Cas a strange look, “We hope Fort Monroe is safe and that you guys make it there without any trouble.”

Laura’s face softened and she and Jaime shared a sad look.  “Yeah, us too.  You guys take care of yourselves, huh?  Find someplace warm, soon.”

Dean waited until after they’d parted ways with the girls and headed 10 minutes up the road in the opposite direction before he rounded on Cas and demanded “And _why_ don’t we want to at least check out Fort Monroe?”

Cas flashed Dean one of his exasperated looks before he heaved a heavy sigh and explained: “Fort Monroe is an island, Dean.  Separated from the mainland by two sets of causeways.  Ostensibly, there are only two ways in or out.  It’s secure, and it’s actually brilliant…as long as _nothing goes wrong_.”  Cas’s blue eyes darkened, and he added “If they lose the causeways, there’d be no way for the living to get _out._ No.  It’s better to have the open ground.”

And, well, Dean couldn’t exactly argue with that.

 

 

 

 

Laura and Jaime had a point, though.  Winter was bearing down on them, and there was no escaping mother nature.  On the third straight day of snow, Dean stopped in the middle of a field and said “Those girls were right.  We need to find some place to hole up for the winter.”

Sam frowned.  “What about Kevin?”

“Kevin’s a smart kid, Sam, and he can take care of himself.  He has before.  And anyway, Kevin’s actually in a better situation than we are, as long as he stays in the bunker.”

“We need to get back, Dean.” Cas added.

“And we _will,_ ” Dean agreed, “But do either of you two think it’d be a good idea to try to cross the Appalachians in the dead of winter, with fucking Croats on our asses?  Because I don’t.  That sounds like a death wish to me.”  Dean sighed and cast his gaze up at the gray sky.  “Look, I don’t like it either, but there’s nothing we can do about winter, man.  It’s coming whether we want it to or not.  And we’d better have a safe place to sleep when it does, or we’re good as dead.”

Cas nodded, and Dean knew that he’d won the argument.  “What do you have in mind?”

Dean pointed to the west.  “It looks like there’s a town not too far from here.  We’ll check it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys should google Fort Monroe, VA. Seriously, it's brilliant.


	10. Battening Down, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in one weekend?! Hope y'all enjoy :)

 

 

Fredericksburg was a ghost town, and a god-send.  By the time they crossed the river and entered into the downtown, there was about five inches of snow on the ground, and the dark clouds above showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.  Dean, Sam, and Cas dragged themselves through the streets, ill-at-ease with just how _quiet_ things were.  No signs of people, no Croats.  It was unnerving, but they didn’t have time to over-think it.  They just needed to _get inside,_ because the snow was coming down hard now, and Dean’s toes had gone numb in his boots hours ago.

“Let’s just find someplace warm,” Sam suggested from Dean’s left.  “We can look for a better place in the morning after the storm’s passed, but I think we just need to choose a place for now.”

“I agree with Sam,” Cas added, from Dean’s other side.  “If we are indeed to winter here, we will want a secure place, but any relatively safe place will work for one night.  Since I don’t need to sleep, I will keep watch.”

And so Dean ended up picking the lock on a diner that had miraculously not been looted, and the three hauled themselves and their duffles into the relative warmth inside. 

They found four Croats waiting for them—what appeared to have been patrons of the place, not gory like most of the Croats they’d seen, but most obviously dead never the less.  They were slumped around the diner, unmoving, until the Winchesters walked in, and then sensing them, they wakened, their dead eyes searching for the scent of living flesh and blood.  Sam nearly stumbled over one, but Dean pulled him back, reaching for his machete as he did so.

Cas beat him to it, though, hand reaching out calmly to lie flat on the Croat’s weak head, flash of light ending its misery.  Then he maneuvered his way through the diner and dispatched the other three in the same manner, burning them out with his Grace.  When he was finished, he turned back to the brothers, to be met with Dean’s raised eyebrow.  “It was merciful, and quick.”  He said, before checking the kitchen and supply room in the back of the building.  Seeing that Cas was going to take the lead on this, Dean and Sam waited semi-patiently for him to return and say “The building is clear.  I suggest we settle someplace away from the windows.  Just in case.”

They set up in a long corner booth on the other side of the room, as far away from the windows as they could get.  While Dean and Sam set up their impromptu beds on the cushioned benches, Cas wandered back into the kitchen to see if there was anything there to eat.  He returned shortly, shaking his head and saying “All of it’s gone bad except for some pickle chips and two large jugs of ketchup and mustard.”

Sam grimaced and said “Yeah, we’ll pass.  Thanks Cas.” 

Dean rummaged in his duffle and pulled out some of the food that they’d gotten from the nearby gas station.  “This’ll have to do until we can look for more.”  Then, “Cas, are you hungry?”

“No,” Cas murmured, leaning against the table of the nearby booth.  “I’m recovered enough that I don’t need to eat.  Save it for yourselves.”

And so they passed their first night in Fredericksburg; Dean and Sam huddled under their jackets, legs cramped on too-small benches, but still warmer and safer than being outside, while Cas watched over them silently.

 

 

 

 

The next morning was all business, and the boys woke early to find that another couple inches of snow had fallen overnight.  There was a short debate about whether they should stay or go, but then the three unanimously decided that Fredericksburg was as good as any other place they were likely to find, and they didn’t really have time to be picky anymore. 

“If we’re gonna stay, then we need to set up a real base camp, alright?  A place where we can be safe, have access to supplies, and be able to keep an eye on things.”

“Right,” Sam added, “So we need to scout the place out.”

“Exactly.  We need to move fast, because there’s a lot of ground to cover, but we got all day, too.”  He glanced to the side.  “Cas, you sticking with us?”

“I think that’s for the best.”

“Good.  Then let’s go.”

 

 

 

They figured it out early on: Fredericksburg was not devoid of Croats.  It’s just that they seemed to move much more sluggishly in the cold, and they were very slow to react.  It was good for the Winchesters, because they were able to take out the Croats fairly easily, but it also meant that there could be countless others scattered throughout the town that just hadn’t been roused yet.

They took stock of the town, street by street, sweeping for Croats and making note of all the places where they might find supplies later.  For the first couple hours, their options for a base were: a sporting goods store, a coffee shop, or a pharmacy (though the door would need to be fixed on that one). 

But then they found it. 

The sign painted over the door in respectable lettering proudly declared: Fredericksburg Mutual Bank. 

The Winchesters shared a look and Dean wiggled the doorknob: locked.  It was easy enough to pick that lock as well, and he knew that if there was still electricity in the town, he would’ve just set off an alarm—but considering there wasn’t (and that no one would respond anyway) they got the door open without consequence.  Cas frowned and followed the brothers in, asking “Why the bank?  Surely there are no supplies here?”

“Not supplies, Cas.” Sam said as Dean led the way into the tidy building.  “Base camp.”

As opposed to most of the places they’d encountered so far, the bank looked put-together and clean, almost like it had been closed up before the virus hit.  There were no signs of looting (because honestly people were more concerned with food and guns at that point rather than money) and aside from a thin layer of dust on the floors and polished wood of the teller’s counter, the place was tidy.

“Looks clear, but keep an eye out,” Dean advised, as he made his way back to the front of the room.  Two large windows flanked the door, far from ideal, until Dean tapped against them lightly and smiled.  “That’s what I thought,” he called over his shoulder, “reinforced glass—maybe even bulletproof.”

Sam and Cas came to inspect the windows themselves as Dean regarded the rest of the room, feeling hopeful for the first time since they’d left the bunker.  “Guys, I think this is it.  Look.”  He made his way behind the teller’s counter and said “We can keep an eye on the street from here, but the glass will keep any wandering Croat from just busting through.  And then,” He walked backward a few steps away from the counter, where an open doorway led to a processing room.  He reached up and grabbed a cord that dangled, just out of sight, and tugged.  A metal gate slid easily down in front of him, effectively cutting him off from the others.  “We have a fricking metal gate, man.  This is awesome.  And hey—there are stairs back here.”

“Bet there are offices upstairs.”  Sam mused, as he moved to join his brother, Cas trailing behind him.

Dean lifted the gate back up and said “Let’s go find out.”

Indeed, the stairs led up to a landing that branched off into several different rooms, all of which were locked, but when opened revealed desks and filing cabinets, and a ton of paperwork, but no Croats.  In the last office they inspected, Cas pointed to the window and said “There’s a fire escape out there.”

Sure enough, the window opened onto a narrow landing that was slippery from the snow, but still solid enough for the three of them to climb up to the roof of the second story.  The roof was plain and empty except for the snow, but it afforded them a very good view of the rest of the town, and both the river and the rolling hills surrounding Fredericksburg.

When they were safely inside the office again, Dean glanced between Sam and Cas and declared “It’s perfect.”  He narrowed his eyes in thought and said “If we pull the lower ladder of the fire escape up, then we don’t have to worry about anyone or anything climbing it.  And we have several lines of defense from the ground floor.  Strong windows, a security gate, heavy wooden doors.  Guys, I don’t think it’s gonna get any better than this.”

“I agree,” Cas said, just as Sam added “You’re right.”

“So,” Dean said, rubbing his hands together, “this is base camp.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Bank was honestly the best idea they’d had since the whole Croatoan mess began.  It already had several defenses built into the building, but it was also very easily fortified.  They raised the fire escape ladder and routinely cleared the snow and ice off the ladder, landing, and roof, so they could use it to keep an eye on the town.  They created their own early-warning system at the door and on the stairs by stringing wire and cans across the space, so that anyone who stumbled into it would make a lot of racket.  And they sprinkled salt in front of the windows and doors, just for good measure.

Once they’d decided on a base camp, it was surprisingly easy to scout the town in sections and bring back any supplies they found.  They filled the spare offices with food and blankets and clothes and weapons that they’d managed to scavenge.  They’d raided the sporting goods store for its remaining guns and ammo, and even a couple bows that could be used in case they ran out of bullets.  They also picked up some sub-zero sleeping bags and a lot more flannel to help them make it through the winter without a heating system—something even they had not been forced to do before.

They took out Croats whenever they found them, though like Cas had said before—now they were so slow it was more mercy killing than anything else.  Little by little, they cleared the town of Fredericksburg, though that didn’t keep more Croats from wandering in from the countryside occasionally.

They didn’t run into any other survivors, but there were signs that people were holed up in their own homes in the countryside.  Sometimes, when they took watch from the roof, they could see a line or two of smoke in the distance, like someone was burning wood to stay warm.  And once or twice, while they were out hunting for more food, they saw carefully measured footprints in the snow, unlike the messy drag marks the Croats tended to leave behind.  But if there were survivors, they stayed out of Fredericksburg, or came by so unobtrusively that the Winchesters never saw them.

It was strange for the Winchesters, to have nothing they were supposed to be doing, except resting and surviving.  It was a new change of pace for them, and neither the brothers nor Cas really knew how to deal with it.  During the days, they scouted and gathered supplies, and killed any wandering Croats they found.

There were some surprising positives that came out of the whole scenario, though.  Dean Winchester hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in months.  There was no place for it here, in this new world, and he couldn’t afford to be anything but alert.  Sam finally got the rest he’d needed for ages, and even though the world felt like it was ending, he looked healthier than he had in a long time.

Everything was just so…domestic, ironically enough.  They had time to relax, and talk with one another.  Of course, there was no way in hell all the time in the world would result in a true share and care moment, because apocalypse or not, they were still the Winchesters, and they just didn’t _do_ that.  But what resulted is that Dean, Sam, and Cas began to function as a much smoother unit than they ever had before.  Spending that much time together, in such a small space made that possible.  It was the first time in a long time that Dean didn’t have to worry about Cas having somewhere else to be, or something more important to be doing.  Cas had let them know, without words, that this was it for him.  The long haul.  He wasn’t going anywhere without them.  At this point, it’d be extremely difficult for him to do so, even if he wanted to.  He’d lost his wings after Purgatory, and so now he was earthbound.

 

 

 

The nights got cold.  Like…really cold.  So cold that frost formed on both sides of the windows, and even sleeping in their sub-zero sleeping bags under layers of clothes wasn’t enough to keep the chill out of their bones.  Dean and Sam had laid their sleeping bags out on the side of the room furthest from the window, near to each other, but not touching for those first couple nights.  And sometimes, even Cas, who didn’t usually need sleep, would settle into his own and just rest near to the brothers.  But one night, it got so cold that the Winchesters unconsciously sought out warmth in their sleep and woke to find themselves with their sleeping bags pressed together.  It was awkward.  But then it happened again the next night.  And the night after that.

It made Dean flush to admit it, but finally he said “I just can’t get warm, man.  No matter what I do.”

“Yeah, me either.”  Sam said, eyes downcast so as not to make the admission worse.

“It’s natural to share body heat, though, right?  I mean, people have done it since the beginning of time, when things get rough.”

“Exactly.”  Sam added.  “And besides, it’s not like you and I didn’t grow up sharing a bed.  There’s nothing weird about it.”

“It’d probably be better if we just spread the blankets out and then share them.  Keep us warmer.”

“Yeah.  Let’s give it a shot.”

It _was_ warmer that night, with Sam and Dean sleeping close under a pile of blankets on the floor, except even that couldn’t keep Dean from shivering occasionally, something that Cas noticed from where he’d been keeping watch.

 

 

 

 

When Dean woke up the next morning, he did so slowly, lazily, content for the first time after the best night of sleep he’d had in months.  He was warm, and felt heavy, languid, safe.  But when he tried to stretch, he found he couldn’t move, and suddenly realized why he was so warm.  Sam’s back was pressed to Dean’s front, and Cas was wrapped securely around Dean’s back, effectively trapping him.  He lay there, trying to control his breathing, trying not to let himself freak out over this new development, for a very long time.  Eventually the others woke as well, and they all pulled away from each other without mentioning what had happened.  And Dean allowed himself a sigh of relief.

But then it happened again the very next night, except this time, he felt Cas slip under the blankets next to him, felt his own shivers abate because of the added warmth at his back.  Which was, he figured, the very reason why Cas had done it.  It wasn’t like the temperature affected _him,_ after all.

They never addressed it, because honestly it made Dean feel like a chick.  Because seriously?  He now spent his nights squished between two other dudes.  But discussion or not, the three of them came to a sort of unspoken agreement—they weren’t gonna talk about it, but it was working for them.  It got them through those long cold nights, and it was a natural human thing to do—seek out warmth. 

There was nothing sexual about it, but that didn’t make Dean feel better about the arrangement.  There was something both comforting and terrifying about being held between two other people like that.  It hinted at a level of closeness that Dean hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on before.  It made him feel itchy, under his skin to think about it.  So he didn’t. 

Except, eventually, things changed, as they tend to do.  _Dean_ changed over the course of that winter.  Maybe it was seeing the evidence of so much death around them every day, or the very nature of those long, cold, desolate days.  Maybe he was just so damn tired of fighting all the time, of putting on a front, even when there was no one to act for.  But eventually, his discomfort and embarrassment changed.  And Dean realized  that he actually found immense comfort in the soft, warm press of skin against his, the heaviness of sleepy bodies wrapped close around each other, the gentle reminder with each breath that Dean and the people he loved were still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Things get...complicated. *cackles*


	11. Out of the Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, and if you have time, please let me know what you think! Your comments bring me joy :)

 

 

By the time the first hint of spring appeared with a gradual thawing of the snow, the Winchesters were ready to move on.

They left Fredericksburg going cross-country over the still-icy ground, trekking along narrow game trails when they could, but making sure to avoid the main roads.  During those long days and nights of winter, holed up in the Bank, they’d had plenty of time to strategize, and they’d come to a few decisions.  The first was that if what they’d seen on their way to DC was any indication, the roads were chaotic and should be avoided at all costs—most survivors tended to need them to figure out where they were going, and thus those areas were magnets for the Croats.  Second—Dean had a mental map of America’s highways in his mind, and he knew how to get where they were going, without actually having to use those roads.  If they stayed a couple miles away from them, but followed the same general direction, they’d eventually get to where they needed to be, with hopefully a lot less heartache in the meantime.

Dean and Sam had driven through Appalachia countless times in their lives, and they’d even had some hunts in the vast range of low, rounded mountains so often wreathed in fog.

Honestly, Appalachia was a hunter’s paradise.  Endless mountains, as far as the eye could see, and dense forests, interspersed with rivers and streams, and towns, and other, less obvious evidence of civilization, like a ramshackle cabin, or an abandoned fire pit.  Now, plants and animals ruled here, but not alone.  There were Croats in those hills, and some travelers too—the Winchesters sometimes still heard the screams, like they had in those early days, but it was almost more jarring now, after such a silent winter.

The people of Appalachia had been chock-full of stories about magic and the supernatural.  And for some of the people who lived in the hills, it was a part of daily life, a truth acknowledged but not dwelled upon.  Those people—the ones who’d never quite decided to join the 21st century, were the ones who Dean figured were still doing just fine, safe in their homes, fully prepared to do whatever they had to do in order to survive—just like they’d _always_ done.

Now, though…well, Dean didn’t think any of their stories predicted this. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was funny.  Dean had been a hunter most of his life.  He’d hunted everything from vampires and werewolves all the way up to demons and even angels.  But he’d never actually been that other kind of hunter—the kind that stalked the woods for animal prey in order to eat.  Since winter, though, he’d had to adjust, and it wasn’t easy.  Hunting animals wasn’t the same.  Monsters—they hurt people.  It was Dean’s _job_ to take them out, and he rarely regretted it.  But animals were innocent, and it mostly seemed like a fucking waste to kill them now, even if it meant that he got to eat.

But it wasn’t just him that he had to worry about.  Sam needed to eat too, and sometimes even Cas, and it was ingrained in Dean’s blood, etched into his _very bones_ to take care of his brother.  And so he taught himself how to aim his gun not at monsters, but at deer and rabbits.  Sam did his fair share too, but he also seemed almost…confused by it.  Like suddenly, they were hunting the wrong thing.  Dean wondered how some people lived their whole lives this way.  He wondered if they found comfort in the simplicity of it—of only killing what you needed to survive, or participating in the cycle of life and death that was as old as the world itself.

 

* * *

 

 

Just two nights out of Fredericksburg, Sam rolled over on his side, where he was propped on the hard ground, attempting to get some rest, and he declared “I miss the Bank.”

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, me too.  Sort of funny, isn’t it?”

“What?”  Cas asked, from where he stood guard a couple feet away, peering into the darkness. 

“We stayed at the Bank longer than we’ve stayed most places in our lives.  It sort of started to feel…”  Dean shrugged awkwardly and blew warm air onto his hands.  “I dunno.  Like home, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “that’s what I was going to say.  I mean, it wasn’t perfect or anything, but we had a nice set up there.  And it was comfortable.”  He pouted and glared at the rocks and roots and dirt all around him.  “At least, a hell of a lot more comfortable than this.”

“This won’t last forever.”  Cas reasoned.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, though his brow furrowed in doubt.  “We’re headed to our _actual_ home.  And with any sort of luck, we’ll be there soon.”

Sam snorted.  “Us?  Luck?”  He rolled his eyes.  “Dean, have you _met_ us?”

Dean knew Sam had a point.  Hell, it was most often _he_ that brought it up.  But there was something about springtime, about actually heading back to the bunker, that gave him some hope.  Right now, he and his family were alive.  If that wasn’t reason to hope, then what was?

 

* * *

 

 

 

A few miles northwest of Blacksburg, the terrain began to change more dramatically.  Wide open fields and rolling hills dotted with houses and farmland changed into denser forests and the beginnings of real mountains. 

They’d gotten an early start that morning, before the sun was even close to cresting over the horizon.  The world around them was painted in dark shades of blue, and black, and gray.  The lack of light was less of a problem than the thick bank of fog that pressed in close all around them, swirling around their feet, clinging to their skin and their clothes, weighing them down and smothering them.  The fog cast strange shadows around them, distorting even the appearance of trees.  Dean, Sam, and Cas marched along the game trail in single file, close to one another, but still the fog swallowed them up one by one, and Cas, who was bringing up the rear, often couldn’t even make out Dean’s outline up ahead.

They were marching resolutely through the soupy mess, guns out, ears sharp and eyes alert, when it happened.  The air was suddenly filled with screams, and then gunshots—utterly chaotic—echoing strangely in the foggy valley so that the Winchesters could not tell which direction the sounds were coming from.  They tensed, adrenaline and panic pumping into their blood, unsure of where the screams were centered—unsure whether they should run toward them or away from them.

The screams grew louder, more panicked, and there was more than one voice that shattered strangely against the millions of water droplets clogging the air.  “We need to get away from here,” Dean decided, finally, his voice falling flat in the thick air.  Sam opened his mouth to protest, to suggest that they should help whoever was screaming, but he clicked his jaw shut when he saw Dean’s terrified eyes.

“Okay,” Sam relented, his chest heaving with the urge to run, run, run.  “Okay, we need to get out of this valley.  Cas,” he called over his shoulder, “Head up the ridge.”

They started making their way uphill, pulling themselves through the jagged, grasping arms of ancient trees that rose up suddenly in front of them, their hearts pounding, desperately trying to keep quiet, because after the screams had shattered the silence, a new sound had joined them.  The moaning of hungry Croats and the shuffling of their dead feet in the underbrush. 

They were halfway up the hill, completely undetected, when they stopped in their tracks, their blood freezing in their veins when they heard a new sound, a haunting sound, a sound that had the power to squeeze their hearts and stop their breath.

A baby.  Crying.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed, his eyes wide and horrified.  Sam and Cas saw the change come over him before he even consciously made the decision to turn and run toward the sound instead of away from it.  It was a sound that grabbed onto Dean and dragged him forward, willing or no. 

Suddenly, the baby’s cries and the screams were echoing all around them, a haunting chorus, interspersed with the moans of the dead and the desperate, intermitted firing of a gun. 

They ran for too long, the cries pounding in their ears in time with their blood, urging them on forward, faster, faster, until the fog swirled around them, and they broke into a foggy grove of trees in a sharp dip in the land.  They raised their weapons and dashed forward, determined to help, to do whatever it took.

The first thing they saw when the fog rose was a tall black woman cleanly slice the head off of a Croat with a single stroke of a long, deadly sword, from where she stood guard in front of a young blonde woman cradling the screaming baby.

The fog swirled around them once more, and they saw other shadows and the flash of gunfire close by.  The swordswoman fixed her eyes on them, just for a moment, a hint of surprise sparking in her gaze, before she turned her attention back to the oncoming Croats. 

Dean, Sam, and Cas moved toward her and the others quickly, falling into formation easily, without needing to speak to one another.  They moved back to back, their own weapons out, slashing through a line of Croats that stumbled from the trees, the close air stinking of their dead blood.  The Winchesters were a well-oiled machine, not breaking ranks until they reached the blonde woman and child, who were crouched on the ground behind the other woman.  They circled them easily, their own machetes slashing through the flesh and blood of the dead, starving monsters. 

Dean couldn’t afford to spare the women and baby much attention, because they were _surrounded_ by Croats, who just _kept coming,_ drawn to them out of the fog by the baby’s continuous, echoing cries.  He did notice, however, that the blonde’s eyes followed their movements as they lashed out and sliced through each approaching Croat, splashing their blood and guts onto the forest floor around them.  Dean was impressed by the swordswoman, even in the heat of battle.  She moved so cleanly, her sword seemingly an extension of herself.  Each swipe ended with a motionless, headless Croat, dropping heavily at her feet.  A part of Dean’s brain even wondered how long she could have kept it up, and protected the others on her own.  How long before she grew too tired to continue, how long before the Croats finally overwhelmed her.  If that happened, would the blonde pick the sword up in her stead?  Would she be able to protect herself and the child?  Would she know how?  Was she brave enough to do what needed to be done?

They slashed and hacked, over and over, their own grunts and heavy breaths dying on the fog around them.  Whenever Dean allowed his eyes to travel from his next mark, he noticed other shadows in the darkness, obscured _,_ before they were swallowed up again.  He wondered how many Croats were still out there, how many they’d already managed to kill.  How many of those shadows belonged to living, breathing people who were also fighting to defend the precious life between them?

 

They fought for ages—it could have been hours or minutes, or days—Dean lost track of time in the easy rhythm of slash, dodge, lunge, retreat.  Over and over and over again.  The heavy press of Sam or Cas at his back was a comfort, kept him going.  The baby’s cries kept him centered, kept him focused on the need to defend.  Defend, _at all costs._

It ended as abruptly as it had begun, though, and suddenly, Dean found himself panting heavily, his eyes scanning the terrain around him for the next Croat to take down, but there were no more.  For the moment, at least, the threat had passed.  He met Sam and Cas’s eyes briefly, just for a second, before he and they turned their attention to the people they’d rushed to defend.  The blonde woman was hunched over the child, shielding it with her very body.  The swordswoman still stood at the ready, her eyes now fixed on the three of them—the next possible threat. 

Dean raised his hands in a show of peace, and the others followed his lead, doing their best to show this fierce woman that they meant no harm.  Dean admired her, the determined spark in her eye that fixed upon him, ready to fight against all of them if it meant protecting her charges.  But then, out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught movement on the ridge.  Shadows moving, legs parting the swirling fog. 

And then, suddenly, _people_ materialized all around them, weapons drawn, and Dean realized, with a jolt of his heart, that they were _seriously_ outnumbered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles*


	12. Three Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! Work and life have been crazy, but I hope everyone enjoys! :D

 

 

_One, two, three, four…._ They just kept coming and coming, dark shadows emerging from the fog, standing bastion on the ridge surrounding them, all silent, bearing weapons, poised for a fight.  Dean counted thirteen of them, plus the women and baby down in the grove with them. 

What the fuck had they just gotten themselves into?

They all stood there for a moment, tense, unmoving.  Dean couldn’t see their faces, but he could tell by their outlines that there were men and women both among the shadows, and perhaps even a boy.  Cas shifted incrementally next to him, and Dean knew that he was ready for another fight.

Sam was the one who cleared his throat and called out, calmly, “We don’t want any trouble here.”

Up on the ridge, one of the figures moved slightly and Dean heard the distinct click of a pistol hammer being pulled back.  A rough, tense voice with a Southern twang called down “Michonne, Beth…is everyone all right down there?  Judith?”

The swordswoman canted her head toward the voice, but she didn’t take her eyes off Dean and the others.  “Judith is fine, Rick,” she replied, in a surprisingly calm, cool tone, “and so are we.”

The blonde stood up and dusted herself off, heaving the baby against her shoulder as she did so.  “We’re safe,” she added in a high, lilting voice.

Some of the other figures drew closer to the man who’d spoken, and Dean noticed they also had guns, which were now pointed squarely at he, Sam, and Cas.  “Who are you?”  The man asked, and the tone of his voice brooked no argument.  Dean could tell this was a man who was used to getting answers.

He cleared his throat and, hands, still raised, said “I’m Dean.  To my right is my brother Sam.  And to the left is our friend, Cas.”

“Alright, _Dean,_ what are you all doing here?”  The figures shifted uneasily on the ridge, perhaps anxious to take the Winchesters out, perhaps afraid of more Croats making their way out of the fog.

“Take it easy, man,” Dean called, fighting to keep his voice from taking on a rough edge.  “We were just passing through, but we heard the screams, and the baby, so we came to help.”

The man, Rick, was silent for a moment, assessing, but then he said.  “Alright.  We’re coming down.”

The other figures around him shifted, and then they took a collective step forward, then another, and they made their way into the dip, their faces finally emerging from the shroud of fog.  Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised by the odd assortment of people who gathered around them: men and women, and a teenage boy, all of different ages and backgrounds.  Dean had expected something more along the lines of the gang they’d encountered in DC—paramilitary wannabes that took advantage of the chaos to do what they wanted.  But what he saw here was a group of people that probably had not started out together, but now huddled close, functioning as a solid unit.

Rick was a man of average height with a long, thin face, cheeks and chin covered in a short, unkempt beard.  His hair was about as long as Sammy’s, but dirty, like his clothes, and the clothes of everyone else in his group.  His eyes were focused on Dean, his eyebrows set in a serious line, a frown on his face, traces of mud and blood flecked across his otherwise pale skin.  He strode toward the Winchesters, gun still pointed at Dean’s face, his eyes unreadable.  He was flanked on one side by a teenage boy wearing a Sheriff’s hat, and on the other by a scruffy man toting a crossbow.

Rick eyed Michonne, Beth, and Judith for a moment, before lowering his gun and saying “Thank you for your assistance with the walkers, it’s much appreciated.  But we can take it from here.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean replied, eyeing the surrounding group warily.  “We’ll just get out of your hair then.”  Dean glanced back at Sam and Cas, and said “Come on guys, let’s go.”  They were ready to leave, anxious to get away from the group of gun-toting strangers. 

But it was Michonne’s voice that stopped them, that put a wrench in their escape.  “Wait,” she murmured, then focused her eyes on Rick instead of Dean.  “Rick, these guys are dangerous.  I watched them fight.  Must be ex-military or something.”

“So, what?”  Dean growled.

“So,” one of the others piped up—an older lady with short graying hair and a strong face—“we aren’t big on taking chances when we don’t need to anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Sam balked.

The man with the crossbow shifted lightly on his feet and said “Means we’re gonna ask you some questions before you leave.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, his blood pounding in his ears, “And what if we don’t feel like answering?”

“Then you’re not leaving.”  Rick answered, voice hard.

A murmur went through the group, but then one man stepped forward and held up his hands in a placating gesture.  “Rick,” he said, his voice deep and calm, “why don’t we just let ‘em go?  They came to help, and now we’re treating ‘em like criminals.”

Rick glanced over his shoulder at the tall, broad man with the gentle voice and said “You know why we can’t, Tyreese.  What if we let them go, and they come back, with others?  Are you willing to take that chance again?”

“There aren’t any others,” Sam interjected quickly.  “It’s just the three of us, and look, if you let us go, you’ll never see us again.  We promise.  We’re just trying to get home.”

“Where’s home?”  Asked the man with the crossbow.

Sam shifted on his feet, and glanced at Dean for a moment, unsure how much to say.  “Kansas.”

The crossbowman snorted.  “That’s a pretty long walk.”

Dean smiled sarcastically at him and said “Yep, so you should let us get going.”

Rick frowned.  “Sorry, we can’t do that yet.  I can’t take that chance.”

“Can’t y’all just put the guns down, and talk like civilized human beings?”  The blonde girl, Beth, said from where she still stood behind Dean.  “These guys came to help us when they didn’t need to, and they haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Beth has a point.”  Another woman—who had serious eyes, dark hair, and dressed like she was ready for combat—said, coming into the light.  “There’s no reason we can’t just…talk, right?”

Rick tipped his head in acknowledgement and said “Alright, what about it?  You fellas willing to have that talk with us?  No weapons?”

“That’s fine,” Sam answered for them “We can do that.”

“Okay, then,” Rick agreed, “but first let’s get to higher ground.  This fog isn’t safe.”

 

 

 

 

 

By the time they’d managed to climb to the top of the nearest hill, the sun had come up and the fog began to dissipate.  In the clear light of day, Dean was even more surprised to see the variety of faces, and though they were all dirty and weary-eyed, the people in Rick’s group looked to be in good condition. 

They all settled themselves on a jut of rock on top of the ridge, Rick’s people ringed loosely around the Winchesters.  From here, they all had a good, clear view of the valley.

“Alright, let’s get started then,” Rick said from where he was crouched on a rock directly across from the Winchesters.  “Before introductions are made, there are three questions we always ask when we meet new people.  Don’t lie—we’ll know.”

Sam, Dean, and Cas all nodded their assent and waited for the inquiries to begin again.

Rick fiddled with his gun, apparently relaxed, but Dean knew it was misleading.  And to make up for Rick’s apparently lax stance, all around them, his people were alert and listening, their weapons close to hand.  “How many walkers have you killed?”  Rick murmured.

“Walkers?”  Cas asked from Dean’s side—his only input thus far.

Rick’s face twisted in a grimace and he waved around them vaguely. “The…undead.”

Dean shrugged, and answered for them “Lost count.”

“And how many people have you killed?” Rick shot back instantly.

Dean didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Only the ones I needed to.”

“Why?”

Dean’s expression didn’t change, but his voice became hard and he said pointedly “Because they tried to hurt my family.”

The group was tense after that statement, but then the crossbowman snorted and said “Well, you asked for honest.”

“I did,” Rick conceded, standing.  “And that’s an answer that I think we can all relate to.”  He held his hand out to Dean and asked “Are you still willing to keep this peaceful?”

“Yeah,” Dean and Sam both huffed at the same time.

“Good, then it’s time for introductions.”

 

 

 

No one had to tell the Winchesters that Rick Grimes was the leader of this group, but it _was_ surprising to learn that the fourteen year old boy with the Sheriff’s hat and the silencer-clad gun was Rick’s son, Carl, and that the baby girl, Judith, was Rick’s daughter.  No one volunteered any information about their mother.  Every precaution that Rick’s group had taken against them now suddenly seemed much more reasonable to Dean.

Michonne remained just as stoic as she had in the valley, but she stuck close to the children, so Dean decided not to dwell on it. 

The young blonde woman who had cradled Judith and protected her against walkers was Beth, and she was _not_ Judith’s mother, like Dean had originally thought.  Beth was the younger sister of Maggie, the woman with the dark hair and serious eyes who had spoken for them in the valley.  She was quiet, and withdrawn, but Dean thought that maybe they all were these days.  The young Asian man who stood next to Maggie introduced himself as Glenn—Maggie’s husband.

Flanking Glenn on his other side was another young woman who introduced herself as Tara, and she _seemed_ more carefree than the others, even the younger ones. 

The man who had verbally defended them in the valley and asked for peace struck Dean as a walking contradiction.  He was a very tall, broad man, eyes dark under a heavy brow, and he looked like he could crush a man with his bare hands.  But his voice and expression were gentle when he too, held out a hand, and formally introduced himself as Tyreese.  The hard-eyed, but beautiful black woman who stood stiffly next to him cast the Winchesters a wary look before she conceded her own name: Sasha—Tyreese’s younger sister.

The older woman with empathetic eyes and a chilling voice introduced herself as Carol, and left it at that.  Next to her was the crossbowman, a man who looked more ragged than the rest, and was dressed like he’d just stumbled out of one of the seedier biker bars that Dean had been to.  The crossbow was lowered, but his finger had never left the trigger.  Still, he managed a sort of mocking half-smile, raised his other hand half-way in an almost lazy, aborted gesture, and grunted “Daryl.”

Then there were two military types—soldiers, if Dean was guessing—a very pretty woman named Rosita, who looked like she could kick some major ass—and a red-haired giant of a man who introduced himself as Abraham.  The two soldiers were seemingly guarding another man—a pudgy dude with a mullet, who withheld his hand, because _you understand,_ but still introduced himself as Eugene.

Finally, and perhaps the most surprising of all, was a kind-faced, but solemn-eyed black man, who still wore the white at his throat—a _priest,_ of all things—and quietly introduced himself as Father Gabriel.

“So you’re headed for Kansas?”  Carol asked, casting them a skeptical glance.

“Yeah,” Sam offered, wiping his giant sweaty hands on his jeans.  “That’s where home is, and we have a friend waiting there for us.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”  Sasha interrupted, “Or even still there?”

“He wouldn’t have left.”  Dean assured her.  “He’s safe.”

Carol and Sasha both snorted, and rolled their eyes at each other.  “No one’s safe anymore.”

“So what about you?”  Dean asked, turning his attention back to Rick.  “Where are you all headed?”

Rick shared a cautious look with Daryl before he shrugged and said “Washington, DC.”

 

 

 

The Winchesters froze when they heard the words, the air hitching in their lungs.  Dean shared a look with Cas for just a moment before, shoulders stiffening, he said “You can’t go to DC.”

“Why not?”  Maggie asked, breaking away from where she’d been murmuring with Glenn and Beth.

“We were there before winter,” Sam explained.  “There’s not much left of it, honestly.  It’s…bad.  Worse than most places.  We barely made it out.”

“Why should we believe you?”  Rick asked, but his voice didn’t sound worried.

Dean met his eyes and said “The place is overrun with gangs and walkers.  I almost lost my family there.  Are you willing to lose yours?”

Abraham broke into the conversation then, shouldering his automatic rifle.  “Don’t listen to him, Rick.  We can’t afford to get distracted from the mission now.”

“Mission?”  Cas wondered.

Abraham tore his eyes away from Rick and rounded on them.  “We’re carrying precious cargo—something that might turn the tide on this Hellish plague.”

“Oh yeah?”  Dean snorted.

“Yeah,” Abraham growled, “We’re gonna save the world.”


	13. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. Life happened. Also, this is a reminder to please read my tags. This is an AU with alternate timeline. Why? Because FUCK CANON. That's why :) Enjoy lol

 

 

Dean’s hollow bark of laughter echoed eerily around them.  “You can’t save something that doesn’t wanna be saved, man.”  He could _feel_ Sam and Cas frowning next to him, so he ignored them.   “You’re right, though,” he added, before Abraham could rebut, “you shouldn’t let us distract you.”  Dean frowned to himself for a moment before he stood and motioned for the others to follow.  “Come on guys, let’s get out of here.”

“Wait,” Rick ordered, and suddenly there was a gun in Dean’s face again.  But Dean had had it by this point—he hadn’t spent his whole life dealing with impossible odds just to bow down to a man with a pistol now.

Dean strode forward so that the outstretched gun was very nearly touching his head.  “You gonna take the shot?” He snarled.  “If not, you better get that thing out of my face, man.  I won’t say it again.”

“We’re not done here,” Rick explained, but his hand was still steady on the weapon, and he made no sign of lowering it.

Dean chuckled, low, and dark, and it was the only warning he gave before he lurched forward, reaching for Rick.  But it was warning enough, apparently, because instead of colliding with the other man, Dean was intercepted by Cas’s solid body, his strong arms grasping at Deans.  It was the dumbest thing in the world for Cas to do: put himself between Dean and Rick, especially with a gun in the way.  Cas’s fingers were iron bands on Dean’s arm, strong but painless, and he was as immovable as he ever had been.  “Don’t,” Cas growled at him, just loud enough for Dean, and maybe Rick to hear.  “He, too, is a righteous man, Dean.  He’s just trying to do what’s best for his people.”  Dean wanted to fight about it, to shove Cas aside and keep going for the other man, but he wouldn’t do it—not after a declaration like that.  So instead he relented, turning away with a grumble and slumping back to his seat where Sam had frozen in a half-crouch, eyes wide at the scene that had just unfolded.  After Cas felt reassured that Dean wouldn’t press his luck further, he rounded on Rick with all of the grace of the skilled warrior that he was and warned: “Don’t do that again.”  His voice was as calm and gruff as always, but it resonated with commanding power and everyone in the group seemed to notice—most of them were just as frozen as Sam had been by the swift turn of events.  “You’re a good man, Rick Grimes—the world needs more people like you.  But regardless: I will not let you hurt Dean Winchester.”

“Right,” Rick said, finally lowering his gun, “you’re right.  We’re all just a little tense is all.”

Cas tipped his head in understanding then returned to his seat next to Dean, seemingly oblivious to the shocked, uneasy stares he was getting from the rest of the group.

 

 

The gathering was eerily quiet after that for a long moment, everyone afraid to even breathe for fear of setting off another violent confrontation.  Finally, though, Father Gabriel cleared his throat and shakily suggested “Maybe—maybe we should hear them out.”

“There ain’t nothing to hear,” Abraham retorted, and Rosita squared her shoulders next to him.  “The only chance we have left is to get Eugene to DC—we gotta take that shot, no matter how slim.”

“No, Dean’s right,” Sam said, after he’d calmed himself.  “If you guys go into that city, you’re not gonna come out.  You seem like good people—don’t do it.”

“We can handle it,” Rosita said.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought too.  We barely made it out alive, and then, it’s mostly because we were lucky.  There’s nothing you can do.”

Abraham laughed, but the sound was chilling.  “That’s easy for you to say.  You don’t know what it’s like to have the fate of the world resting on your shoulders.”

Before Sam could reply, Dean clapped his hands and surged to his feet, grinning wryly.  “You know what, GI Joe?  You’re right.  We don’t.  So we’ll get out of here and leave you heroes to it.”

“Dean, wait….” Sam began, reaching for his brother.  “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what, Sam?  They have no reason to believe us.  They’re not gonna listen.  Fine.  That’s not our problem.  We have our own mission to worry about.”

“Sir,” Eugene called, stepping away from his body guards.  “I think I’d like to hear what you have to say about DC.”

“Eugene,” Abraham growled in warning. 

“The man’s got a point, Abraham.  We don’t know what we’re walking into, and I’d like to learn.”

“He’s right,” Maggie added, finally.  “What’s the point, if we all die before we get there?”

Daryl cast a glance at Rick and said “Looks like we’re gonna be here for a while.”

“Glenn and I will set up a perimeter,” Michonne said matter of factly before she and Glenn ambled down the hill and disappeared into the tree-line. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Winchesters related their experience of DC in graphic detail, even going so far as to draw a map in the dirt to demonstrate just how spectacularly _fucked_ Rick’s group would be if they tried getting into the city.  During the entire discussion, Rick’s group was silent on _why exactly_ they needed to get to DC, or what their precious cargo was.  Not that Dean really gave a fuck.  He knew for a fact that there was nothing this group could do to help the situation.  Even the King of Hell had told them to pack it in and call it a day.  And these guys?  They were survivors, yeah, but still civilians. 

“The jaws of death, dude,” Dean said, sitting back on his heels and meeting Rick’s eyes again.  “That’s what you’re walking into.”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Look, I know we can’t make you change your mind.  You guys are gonna do whatever you want no matter what we say.  But trust me on this: there’s nothing good in DC.”

“Well, thank you for the intel, but that’s enough of that,” Abraham said, “We have things to do.  Rick,” he turned toward the other man, who was still inspecting the roughly sketched map, “We should be heading out again.  The fog’s cleared.”

“I wouldn’t advise it.”  Eugene quipped.  “There’s still plenty for us to talk about.”

“Like what?”  Abraham’s voice was flat.  “The mission hasn’t changed.”

“Strategy, then.” 

“Whatever we’re up against, we can handle it,” Rosita soothed, making an aborted attempt to pat Eugene’s arm.  “We’ll do whatever we have to.”

Eugene’s face was quickly paling, and sweat beaded on his brow and upper lip.  “I think we need to reassess.”

“No.”  Abraham retorted.  The rest of Rick’s group held their tongues for the moment, seemingly content to observe the argument.  “Enough of this.  Let’s go.”  He took a step toward Eugene, hand reaching out, and the other man jerked back with a gasp, his hands shaking.

“I don’t wanna go to DC.”  The words were blurted in a panicked rush, but they fell heavily on the group, weighted enough that everyone else froze, silent.

Dean had no idea what the deal was with this group, and frankly he didn’t care, but even he could tell that shit had just hit the fan.

The silence and stillness of the hilltop gathering was a storm waiting to break—Dean could feel it in his bones—the tang of violence, the promise of blood.

“What did you just say?”  Abraham hissed, his voice a dangerous whisper.

“I…I said,” Eugene stuttered, as he struggled to raise his chin in an attempt at courage, “I don’t wanna go to DC.”

Abraham took one slow, stalking step forward.  “You have two seconds to explain yourself.”

Eugene’s throat bobbed, and his eyes scanned the other faces of the group uneasily, before jerking back to Abraham.  “I…” he choked, hands and voice still quivering.  “I….  I lied.”

“You what?”  Rosita hissed, suddenly coming up on his other side.  Eugene backed away a step.

“I lied, alright?  I apologize for deceiving you, but… I’m not…. I’m not… who you think I am.”

“What are you saying?”  Abraham’s voice was so low now that Dean had to strain his ears to hear it.

“I don’t….” Eugene gulped.  “If we go to DC, we’ll all die, and it’ll be for nothing.”  He clenched his fists.  “I don’t have a cure.”

Even though Dean had expected an outburst, had scented the violence on the air, the hot splash of blood that hit his face was still a surprise.  So too was Eugene’s wretched scream when Abraham threw his gun aside and launched himself at the smaller man, his fists swinging for maximum, rage-fueled damage.  He got in two hits, maybe three, before there was a mad rush of other bodies converging on the fight, a chaos of hands and faces, and panicked voices, struggling to end the bloodshed.  It took Daryl, Rick, and Tyreese together to pull Abraham from Eugene’s sobbing, crumpled body, and even then it was a struggle.  Abraham was an animal in their grasp, face wild, snarling, as he fought to get another hit in.  Maggie and Beth rushed forward in the now empty space, crouched on either side of Eugene to assess the damage.  His face was a mess of blood.

Something pushed Dean to intervene, to help hold Abraham back, but from what he’d heard, Eugene probably had it coming.  Or at least, he’d been lying to his companions for a while.  And in the end, it really wasn’t Dean’s problem.  In fact, now looked like the perfect opportunity to get the hell out of Dodge.

“You son of a bitch,” Sasha spat at Eugene as the two sisters struggled to get him to sit up so they could stop the bleeding.

Nearby, Abraham had finally stopped fighting, and instead now sat slumped against a scraggly tree, his face eerily blank.  Tyreese spoke soothing words to him, and Rick held his shoulder steadily, but Daryl’s face reflected Sasha’s statement. 

“Now what?”  Carol asked no one in particular. 

Tara hugged herself, and tears slid down her cheeks.  “That’s all we had,” she whispered.  “That’s all we had.”

 

 

 

Dean closed his heart to it all, and shouldered his duffle once more.  “Come on Sam, Cas.  Let’s get the hell out of here and leave these guys to it.”

It was probably a testament to the devastation inflicted by Eugene’s confession, and the hopelessness of Rick’s group that no one tried to stop them from grabbing their things and leaving.  The others were too busy tending to their wounds and trying to hold themselves together.  Dean knew what it looked like when a man fell apart, and he could see it in every single face in the group.  Even Maggie and Beth, who tended to Eugene with grim determination, had shut down.  The whole hilltop now reeked of heartbreak and shock. 

It took Dean six steps before he realized that Sam and Cas weren’t following him.  He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath before he turned back to see their eyes glued on the faces of Rick’s people, who almost seemed to be in mourning for their mission, their hope.  “Sam,” Dean growled, and his brother jerked to attention.  “Let’s go.  This isn’t our business.”

Sam’s steps were heavy, reluctant, when he joined Dean.  And Cas followed even more slowly.  “Dean,” Sam began, large puppy eyes glancing back toward the others.

“No, Sam.  Don’t even start.”  Dean clenched the duffel’s strap in his hand.  “Let’s get out of here before they realize they’ve lost us.”

“But Dean,” Sam pressed.  “Look at them.  They just… they look like their world just crashed down around them.  Again.”

“Yeah, well, not our problem.  They made it this far.  They’ll be okay.”

“What if they came with us?”  The words were the very ones that Dean was expecting, dreading.  Sam was too fucking soft.  Always had been.

“Hell, no.”  Dean retorted.  “We have our own shit to deal with, Sam, in case you forgot.  We don’t have time to babysit a bunch of civilians, and I sure as _hell_ aint slowing down for them.  Their mission might have gone to shit, but we still have a chance of finishing ours.  So I’ll say it again: let’s go.”

“He’s right, Dean.”  Cas rumbled from near his shoulder. 

“Shit, not you too, Cas.”  Dean growled. 

“Those people are going to die, Dean.”  Sam rushed to explain, his voice heavy with emotion.  “Those _kids_ are going to die.”

Cas nodded slowly, his ancient eyes fixed beyond Dean on the broken, chaotic huddle of Rick’s group.  “If they don’t find someplace safe soon, then yes.  They will likely all die.”

Dean’s heart clenched and he ground his teeth in an effort to keep himself in check.  “Not our problem.”

“You don’t mean that.”  Sam’s voice was too soft.  Hurt, disappointed.

Dean refused to look at him, or at Cas, who could likely still see every inch of his soul.  He wasn’t going to think about it, he wasn’t going to acknowledge the truth in their words.  He wasn’t.  He _wasn’t._

He flashed a glance over Cas’s shoulder, and wished he hadn’t.  Amid the chaos and tears, and broken, slumped stances, Carl held Judith tightly in his arms and rocked her, singing lowly under his breath.  Despite everything, the boy smiled down at his little sister, and Dean was suddenly transported to another time and place, another moment in history when the world came crashing down, and family was the only thing left.  He felt the fight go right out of him then.  “Fuck it.”  He sighed, and he felt more weight settle firmly on his shoulders—sixteen more lives.  He almost didn’t recognize his own voice as he raised it above the din and croaked “Come with us.”


	14. Convergence

 

 

It was going to be a long night.  Sam knew it from the moment his brother opened his mouth and uttered the words that changed everything.

Sam had given up praying a long time ago—mostly because he knew it didn’t do any good.  But if he _had_ still been the praying type, he would have prayed for Dean to do what he did.  Sam didn’t care what condemnations anyone else threw at his brother.  Sam knew the truth: Dean Winchester was a good man.  And that whole _not our problem_ spiel was a load of crap, and all three of them knew it.  If innocent people were in danger, Dean _made_ it his problem.

Sam was proud of his brother.

But now they had to deal with the chaos of trying to figure out just what exactly they’d signed themselves up for.

 

 

After Dean had offered this odd, broken group of people the opportunity to join them, the whole gathering had sort of…paused.  Taken a deep, collective breath, and then exploded in a flurry of hushed conversation.  Would they go, or wouldn’t they?  What else were they going to do if they _didn’t_ join the Winchesters?  Where else could they possibly go?  What did the Winchesters want in exchange?  People didn’t just _help_ people anymore.  That’s just not how the world worked nowadays.  How did Rick’s group know they could trust the Winchesters?  How did they know it wasn’t a trap, or a lie?  A pipedream like DC?  How did they know that the Winchesters’ home hadn’t been destroyed in their absence, or that it was anywhere near as safe as they claimed?

Sam almost wished he had the ability to shut his brain off for a while so that he wouldn’t have to hear the sharp clash of doubt and hope, the hissed arguments and the hopeful pleas.  He didn’t know anything about Rick’s group.  Not really.  Hell, Dean might have been right after all.  Only….  Only, even if the world had gone to shit, there _were_ still good people left.  Sam and his brother and Cas were perfect examples of that.  And Sam had a feeling that Rick’s group was full of good people too.  They were just afraid, and upset, and Sam couldn’t blame them for that. 

Still, the camp was divided.  Some of Rick’s people wanted to keep going as they had been—they’d done fine on their own before, and they didn’t need the help.  Wouldn’t accept pity.  Carol and Michonne both agreed that it was too much, joining the Winchesters.  But the larger, more vocal group was the one that wanted to join them, and head for Kansas.  They talked and argued, but in the end, each got their say.  Sam could appreciate that if nothing else—even at the end of the world, these people were still willing to listen to each other, to value each other’s opinions.  That meant a lot, and it gave him some hope for them all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was Carl, of all people, who finally approached Dean.  Dean had to give it to him—the kid had guts.  Carl was young, but he moved with the confidence of someone much older, the confidence of someone who had survived terrible things and still managed to be okay.  He strode forward, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, hat tipped back just enough that he could meet Dean’s eyes when they came toe to toe.  Dean almost expected him to flinch, but was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t.  Instead, Carl tipped his head back just an inch, so they were eye to eye, and he asked “Why would you offer to let us come with you?”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably, a bit startled by the direct question.  “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Not many people care about that anymore.”  Carl said blandly, like it was more than an opinion, more than an observation.  It was a fact of life. 

“Yeah?  Well maybe I’m one of the few who do.”

“Maybe.”  Carl conceded, but he continued to eye Dean up, weighing him.  “You understand about family.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.”  Dean’s eyes itched to flicker around the camp, away from the assessing gaze of the teenage boy.

“You said Sam’s your brother.  Older?”

“Younger.”

“Then you know what it means to be a big brother.  I bet you’d do anything for him, right?  You’d do whatever it took to protect him?”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.  “Yeah.”

Carl glanced back to where Tyreese was cradling the baby girl in his large arms, before facing Dean once more.  “Judith’s my little sister.  She’s my responsibility.  And she needs a home.  A safe place.”  Carl chewed at the edge of his lip then, the first sign of nerves.  “Can you give her that?”

Dean nodded and held out a hand, offering Carl the courtesy of a promise, man to man.  “If we can make it there, then… yeah.  She’ll be safe.”

Carl fit his much smaller hand into Dean’s own and shook, the slight tilt of a smile finally curling his lips.  “Then we’re coming with you.”

 

 

After Carl had made up his mind, it was easy enough for him to get the others to follow suit.  Dean watched their resistance fall like dominoes, and he wondered whether Carl really had that much power over the rest of them, or whether they’d just been waiting for someone give them an excuse to say yes.  Rick offered minimal resistance, and Michonne agreed once Rick did. 

Dean almost thought the group might split—one portion heading off by themselves.  But Daryl fixed that problem easy enough when he shrugged his crossbow up over his shoulder and said “Can’t be any worse than what we’ve been through already.  Maybe they’re right, and it’ll be better.  If not, we can always leave.”

“Right,” Glenn agreed, “we can always leave.”

And that seemed to be the group’s new mantra: “We can always leave.”  Not confidence inspiring, but it’d do.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean guessed that technically they were now one group, but it didn’t feel like it.  That was fine.  He didn’t expect them to magically mesh in the space of a day.  Trust didn’t work like that. 

Still, they did their best to mingle before it was time to turn in for the night.  They moved casually among Rick’s group, answering questions about where they were headed, and what home was like, inconsequential things about themselves, and Kevin, who was waiting for them to return.

 

 

* * *

 

There was no way that Dean was gonna be able to sleep that night, so he offered to take first watch, along with Maggie, who stationed herself on the other side of the hill from him.  They’d all agreed to head out at first light, so really, they should all be catching some shut eye.  But Dean had a feeling that no one was gonna be sleeping—too wary of the walkers, and the future, and each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, y'all. The next one will be longer and much more...uh...interesting ;)


	15. The Children's Crusade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter this week?! I must love you all or something ;) I hope you enjoy! Things are getting real now!

 

 

They ambled down the hill just as the sun broke the horizon, a mis-matched group of single file and twos or threes, all following the tall, dim silhouette of Sam, the group’s personal pied piper.  Eugene limped not far behind him, braced between Beth and Tara, both of whom bore him without complaint.  Eugene’s face was a mess of red and purple bruises, nose likely broken, lip split, and right eye swollen almost all the way shut.  Still, he moved forward without mentioning it.  Dean might have felt sorry for the guy, except from what he’d heard, Eugene pretty much deserved it.  Lying to people was one thing—but when lying to them meant dragging them across state lines in the middle of a zombie apocalypse to save your own ass?  Yeah, Dean would have beat the living hell out of him too.  He almost asked why the others were being so understanding about it, but then he decided not to.  Everyone had their own reasons for doing things.  Honestly, Dean knew he had no room to judge.  He’d done more than his fair share of fucked up shit in his life.

The others followed close—Rick and Carl, then Michonne, Tyreese carrying Judith once more, with Sasha walking next to him with her hand always on her gun.  Dean and Cas followed behind that group, and Dean did his best not to shift uneasily while being square in the middle of a group of strangers.  A group of strangers that he was leading back to the closest thing to a home he and his family had.  What did that make this group to him, then?  They were strangers.  They sure as fuck weren’t family.  But….

Daryl and Carol came behind them, both occasionally asking questions about the route they were taking, and what Kansas was like—neither had ever been that far west before.  Father Gabriel trailed behind them, listening, but pretending not to.  Glenn and Maggie followed behind the priest, holding each other’s hands and watching the trees along the game trail warily—always on guard for walkers. 

Rosita and Abraham brought up the rear, their guns hitched on their shoulders.  There was a moment early in the morning, when it looked like they might not join the group.  Dean wouldn’t have blamed them.  He had the feeling there was a hell of a back story there.  After all, the way that Abraham had attacked Eugene hadn’t been a cold, calculated reaction—it had been visceral, personal.  In the end, Rosita said that she’d stick with Abraham, no matter his decision, and maybe it was that show of solidarity that got Abraham moving.  He didn’t want to talk about it; in fact, he hadn’t said a whole lot since the day before, but Dean had a feeling that the man had agreed to join them simply because he had nowhere else to go.  Dean knew what it was like to live your whole life with a mission and then to suddenly have it taken away.  It wasn’t a good feeling. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes Castiel missed his full powers—he missed being able to fly the most.  Other times, like now, having the ones he did hurt just a little too much.  The world had always been a wonderful, awe-inspiring, but painful place.  Castiel’s mind had always been abuzz with the prayers of the sad, or the desperate, or the needful.  He’d learned millennia ago how to sift through the prayers, take notice of the strongest, and tune the others down to a low hum: background noise.  He didn’t hear them much anymore—partly because not many humans knew his name any longer, but also because he’d fallen out of favor with most of them recently.  There were still the occasional pointed prayers, though, and Dean’s steady stream of unconscious need and longing—a thing that the man was quite unaware of.  Castiel had never mentioned it to him.  Now though…now, Castiel heard new prayers, broken, haunted ones. 

Even through the mess of falling, and being exiled, and getting trapped in Purgatory, and powering down, Castiel had never lost his ability to see souls.  Most of the time, he was grateful for this blessing.  Dean’s soul was still the brightest, most honest, pure, and awe-inspiring thing that he had ever beheld, even when it was torn, and broken, and aching.  He took comfort in the steady glow of the souls of his human family, because it meant that they were all still here, still fighting, still together, despite everything.

These new souls were different.  Mostly because they were so sharply similar to the ones Castiel loved so dearly.  There wasn’t a soul among this new group, with the exception of Judith, who hadn’t endured terrors, who hadn’t done terrible things as well.  So many of these weary travelers’ souls were heavy with regret.  And loss.  Anger.  Fear.  Bitterness.  Overwhelming grief.  Castiel felt each one like a sharp blade in his recently all-too-human heart.  He wanted to save them all, hold them close, and tell them that everything was going to be alright.  Of course, he knew that would be a lie.

The world around them was cold, and heavy, and gray, and the air itself almost seemed to shiver with dreadful anticipation, like at any moment, the end might come, and swallow them whole.  Still, amid that shroud of darkness, the souls shone on, little beacons of soft, stubborn light.  Swarming the hills around them, dark, empty shells, soul-less bodies lurched and stumbled and looked for their next meal.

 

 

 

When they stopped for a short break mid-afternoon, Castiel approached Daryl Dixon, the bowman, the survivor, the lone wolf who had finally found his pack.  The man was crouched on a bare rock, checking over his crossbow and making easy conversation with Beth, when Castiel drew near.  Even after spending years with the Winchesters, and millennia before that watching humanity, Castiel’s people skills were still awkward at best.  He cleared his throat to get Daryl’s attention, and when the man lifted his head to focus on him, Castiel waved his hand vaguely and said “We haven’t gotten the chance to speak yet.”

Daryl shrugged his shoulders easily and said “We got time now.  What’s on your mind?”

Castiel licked his lips and said “I just wanted to tell you that I uh… I like your vest.  Does it have meaning to you?”

Daryl shifted, perhaps surprised, perhaps uncomfortable.  His voice was just a bit gruff when he said “Yeah.  It does.”

Set against the black leather, the white angel wings were dirty and faded, torn in a couple places, but somehow, still beautiful.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They covered a lot of ground that first day, trekking through half-frozen Appalachia on a north-western path, headed for I-64, before they could pick up highway 35.  When they’d mentioned their route, Carol had raised her eyebrows and asked “That seems to be a little bit…out of the way, doesn’t it?”

Dean and Sam had both shrugged, saying that they’d followed the same path to DC, and at least they vaguely knew what to expect in taking that same route. 

Dean didn’t honestly think the others bought their explanation, but none of them called him on it, so for now he wasn’t gonna worry about it.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was never going to admit it, not in a thousand years, not even if you tortured him.  But the fact was, that after spending the long cold nights of winter holed up in the bank, pressed warmly between the bodies of his brother and Cas, he’d sort of…gotten used to it.  Gotten so used to it, in fact that he had trouble falling asleep on his own now.  It wasn’t a big deal, really.  Honestly.  It was just that there was something so damn…reassuring about feeling the steady inhale-exhale of another body next to his, of knowing that his loved ones were alive and well.  He liked it.  It was nice.  But it’s not like he was ever gonna _ask_ for it.  Hell, no.  That would be… well, he just wasn’t gonna do it. 

Lucky for Dean, he didn’t have to.  Maybe it was because Cas wasn’t staying out of his head like he was supposed to, or maybe it’s just because he knew Dean _that well._   Hell, maybe it was because Cas himself needed that same sort of comfort.  Dean didn’t know, and he didn’t really care.  But regardless, he never had to say the words.  That first night, when they settled down next to a stone outcropping at the bottom of a hill, and he tucked himself into his sleeping bag for warmth, Cas automatically settled down next to him, without either of them having to say a word. 

Dean was a bit embarrassed by it, mostly because he was aware that they had an audience, and he didn’t really want to end the day with having to punch someone in the goddamn mouth, but in the end, the worry was for nothing, because no one said a thing.  Cas was soft and warm next to him, his breath tickling the back of Dean’s neck, warming it against the early spring chill.  It took him longer than normal to fall asleep, still too self-conscious to just _let go,_ but eventually exhaustion overcame him, and he slipped into sleep, cradled in Cas’s solid embrace.  His last conscious thought was _this is nice—if anyone says anything about it, I’ll fucking fight ‘em for it._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sam drew first watch, content to relax against a tree away from the group and observe their interactions in silence while he held his weapon loosely at his side.  He found it particularly amusing to watch his brother and Cas march just far enough away from the others to be conspicuous before laying down together and snuggling for warmth.  Sam could just imagine Dean’s half-muttered threats and stubborn grumbling, as the angel wrapped his arms around him and held him close.  Honestly, Dean was ridiculous.

Sam was enjoying the soft settling night, and watching his breath puff out in pale crystals in front of his face, when he was startled out of his musings by Sasha, sidling up next to him with her own weapon in hand.  That’s right—she’d also drawn watch.  Sam glanced at her, cautious; she’d been withdrawn, stone-faced for most of the day, like she still didn’t trust this decision.  Now, though, she met Sam’s eyes for just a second before nodding her head toward Dean and Cas, who were curled tightly around each other, sleeping now, and asked “So, how long have they been together?”

Sam barely held back a snort.  “Oh, they’re uh…not, actually.”

Sasha jerked her gaze back to meet Sam’s eyes, surprised.  “You’re kidding.”  When Sam didn’t laugh, she frowned and waved back at the other two.  “Seriously?  I mean…look at them.  We’ve known you all for two days, and already everyone can see that they’re in love with each other.”

Sam allowed himself a rueful chuckle and conceded, “Yeah, you’re telling me.  I’ve been dealing with this for years.  But they’re not really the kind to talk about their feelings—and anyway, it’s complicated.”

Sasha frowned and shifted on her feet.  “Why?  Whatever was stopping them before—they can’t think that really matters now, do they?  The world isn’t what it was.”

Sam furrowed his brow and bit his lip.  “Good point.”


	16. What We Always Have Been

 

 

 

Daryl was a good hunter.  Dean didn’t concede that point lightly, and in fact for the most part, he wasn’t very easily impressed either.  But even Dean could admit that having Daryl Dixon around, as long as the man was the honest type like Dean suspected, could only strengthen the group as a whole.

Dean wasn’t surprised that first time when Daryl went into the mass of trees and returned a short time later with a couple rabbits slung over his shoulder.  Daryl had a crossbow, he looked like a backwoods man himself, and come on—the guy looked like he was used to killing things.  So yeah, Dean got it—he could hunt.  But then Dean slowly began to realize it wasn’t a fluke, and it wasn’t just a job.  Every time Daryl set out for a hunt, he came back with something for the rest of camp to eat.  He was a provider, feeding his own family (and now the Winchesters too) and he never once asked for anything in return.  That itself didn’t even impress Dean.  What did, though, was that when Sam went to thank him for the meat he’d provided, Daryl brushed him off and said “It’s just huntin’, anyone could do it.”  And Dean knew from a lifetime of experience that that was absolute bullshit.  Not just anyone could hunt, and sure as hell, not everyone could do it well.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s not like Dean hadn’t been doing it before, but now he started to pay much closer attention to the people in Rick’s group—now _his_ group as well.  And not in the calculating, risk-management style he’d been doing before—he watched them as people now, rather than just potential threats, and he was pleasantly surprised.

Perhaps one of the strangest interactions he observed was between Glenn and Tara.  At first, Dean wondered if maybe Glenn and Tara had something on the side, or, his mind even suggested, maybe Glenn, Maggie, and Tara were all _together._ Because the girl was always around Glenn, and they showed each other a strange sort of affection, a different kind than some of the others did.  There was a story there, somewhere, Dean didn’t doubt.  But as he watched them, slowly, day after day, he began to realize their relationship wasn’t like that at all—it wasn’t sexual, and it didn’t even look romantic.  It was something that Dean was actually quite familiar with—something closer to the devoted, never-wavering love between siblings.  Glenn made it a point to include Tara in conversation, and she spent much of her time with him and Maggie.  In return, Tara followed Glenn.  Not in the same way that they were all following each other to Kansas, or even in the same way that friends might follow each other.  Tara followed Glenn in the same way that Dean followed Sam, or that Cas followed Dean—like she would walk into Hell right after Glenn if that’s what it came to, that she would put herself between him and the Devil. 

Dean had no idea what had brought them to this point, but he could respect it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

One morning before they set out, they were eating a quick breakfast around the dwindling fire of their camp, when Glenn nodded at Cas across the fire and asked, “So, uh… what did you do?  Before the Turn, I mean?”  The question was pretty brave.  Dean knew that the others must have been wondering about Cas for a while.  He was quiet most of the time, and polite, if awkward.  He didn’t make waves.  But in less than the blink of an eye, he could turn into a badass of literally epic proportions, not just throwing down against anyone who challenged him, but able to back it up and more.  Dean knew that they’d gotten a glimpse of it, at least—maybe even more than once.  But even then, they had no idea of what was housed in the tousle-headed, blue-eyed body. 

Cas blinked across the fire at Glenn for a moment before rumbling “I was a soldier.  Now….” The words seemed to fade before they reached Cas’s lips.  Dean leaned just a bit closer to him, so that their shoulders touched.  No.  Cas wasn’t allowed to feel guilty about that.  Cas managed a half-hearted smile and shrugged.

Glenn looked away awkwardly and poked at the fire with a charred stick.  “Yeah, I get it.  Doesn’t really matter anyway.”

“What were you?”  Cas ventured.

Glenn’s smile was wry when he said “Pizza delivery boy.  Go figure, huh?”

“No one’s the same anymore.”  Tyreese whispered.  “We lost that.”

“I don’t think so,” Cas said, his brow wrinkling slightly with a thoughtful frown.  “I think we’re still what we always have been.  The important parts, at least.”

And, well, didn’t that just kick Dean in the gut?  Were they?  Were they all exactly as they had been before, just… shaded in a different way?  Revealed?  Were these everyone’s true colors finally showing after being put under heat and pressure?  Or were they something different now?  Transformed by hardship?

If Dean had been transformed, it had happened so long ago that it didn’t surprise him anymore—a night decades ago when his father had put his little brother into his arms and told him to run.  Some things changed, sure…that was human nature.  But yeah, maybe Cas was right…if they did change, it sure as hell wasn’t the end of the world that had done it.  Not for them, at least.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They really were a family, albeit a strange, patchwork one.  Not that Dean was one to judge.  For most of his life, his family had consisted of his father, brother, and their car.  Now, though, he too had a family of strange loners that he’d christened honorary Winchesters, and dragged further into his crazy.  In fact, even though Dean had no idea where they were—Garth, Charlie, the others—he found himself hoping every single day that they were being smart, staying safe.  Dean didn’t have faith in a lot of things, but he had faith in the people he loved.  They were capable, and he’d trusted them to watch his back in dangerous situations plenty of times.

Rick’s group were a similar kind of family.  They might have been brought together by the vagaries of fate and the horror that was the end of the world, but they were the ones who had chosen to stay together, to become something more than a random group of survivors.  It would have been easy to keep to themselves, or to always be on the lookout for a better opportunity.  But they seemed to have a sort of trust in each other that was only born in the worst kinds of situations.  These people had obviously been through a lot.  Dean knew exactly how hard it could be to open your heart and welcome new people in, to trust them, and love them, and take the chance that later, they or their loss might tear you apart.  These people had made that choice.  Even now, at the end of things, when life as they knew it had come to an end, these people had placed their faith, their chances, in each other’s hands.

They all helped each other, and had their own responsibilities.  Dean was pleasantly surprised to find that they didn’t have to be asked to do things for each other.  It was just the normal way of things.  And not only with things like securing the perimeter of their camp, or hunting, or hauling firewood.  It extended to Carol laying a hand on Abraham’s shoulder one evening, and asking if he was alright.  It was Daryl and Tyreese coddling and feeding Judith.  It was Michonne bumping her shoulder with Carl’s.  And now, without even looking for it, Dean could see it in Sam and Sasha chatting while they gathered firewood together, a trace of a smile on both their faces.

They’d all lost people, and felt pain.  But you know what?  They were also still here, still alive, against all odds.  And they were making the best of it in whatever way they could.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes, on the journey, it was almost possible to forget that they were in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, that the world had crashed and was burning around them.  But every so often they were reminded again.  Most of the time, it was in little ways—finding an abandoned camp somewhere in the woods, where splashes of blood and gore were testament to the tragedies that were happening all around them.  Sometimes they climbed high enough up on the mountain ridges to get a view of the land spread out around them, and they caught glimpses of abandoned country sides, or highways choked with abandoned cars, and charred ground.  Sometimes they caught a glimpse of a walker making its way through the trees, mindless, hungry.

Sometimes they were caught off guard, still, and had to fight.  The group was big enough to be an easy target—maybe the walkers could smell them, or hear them, or just sense the mass of _life_ moving through the trees.  But the group also worked well together, regardless of its size, and was able to protect itself.  No matter the age or gender, or previous occupations of these people, not a single one was complacent, not a single one was defenseless. 

They were not victims.

When the herds of walkers came, the group hid, and waited them out.  When they came across smaller groups of walkers, or stragglers, they moved through them like a hurricane, wreaking destruction as they went.  They didn’t need guns.  Hell, some of them didn’t need machetes or knives, or anything else either.  Some of them had become weapons themselves, honed time and again each time their life was on the line. 

 

* * *

 

 

They trudged steadily northwest through rolling Appalachia, and it grew gradually warmer with each day.  Still, every night the forest grew eerily quiet, and frost covered the ground.  Dean and Sam and Cas curled close around each other when they slept, keeping each other warm and taking comfort in the mere presence of family.  At first, Rick’s group had commented on it, laughing that they curled up in a “puppy pile.”  It was a regular joke around camp.  Until, of course, Dean woke one morning to find Glenn, Maggie, and Tara sleeping the same way.  And Carl, Judith, Rick, and Michonne in a similar situation.  Dean had waited until they were awake before smirking at them over the remnants of their camp fire and saying “Puppy pile, huh?”

Maybe it was ridiculous, to be worried about things like cuddling at night, especially when they had _serious_ problems like the walking dead on their asses every single day.  But then again, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal.  They ate together, lived together, learned each other’s weird habits, killed together, survived together.  Compared to that, what was strange about simply sleeping together? 

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe one of the hardest things they had to deal with was not revealing too much of themselves.  Especially Cas.  Dean knew that it was Cas’s nature to handle situations; he was quick, efficient, and terrifying when he wanted to be.  It was natural for Cas to simply push a car out of his way, if it was there, or to burn out walkers with his Grace, dropping them at his feet, rather than bother with other weapons.  It was normal for Cas to talk about souls, and the holy nature of things.  But he had to be very careful now.  Rick’s group had finally started to accept the Winchesters into their fold, they were finally earning a bit of trust, through the steady progress of days and miles.  And while Dean appreciated the relaxing nature of their relationship with each other, he had no doubt that would change in an instant if they even got a whiff of what Cas really was.  Right now, supernatural things were the enemies—Dean didn’t want to know how Rick’s group might react if they realized that something even more unbelievable than the walking dead was in their very midst. 

Where would that conversation even start?  Um, yeah, _Cas is an angel.  God and the Devil are real, and they’re both dicks.  We’ve spent our whole lives hunting monsters—this whole apocalypse thing really isn’t that new for us._ Dean had a feeling that news wouldn’t go over very well, and he had no intention of dying before he made it back to the bunker. 

Cas wasn’t dumb.  Dean didn’t even have to mention caution to him—he just understood.  They were in such a precarious situation, that Cas’s true nature might actually end up getting them all killed.  So he kept himself under tight control, even when it was obviously very difficult, even when he was fighting, even when they stumbled upon a small town here or there and did supply raids.  Even when things got…complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles*


	17. Big Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to tags and warnings. This chapter is a bit rougher than most.

 

 

 

The fire crackled, damp wood popping as the moisture burned off, the meat of the buck sizzling where it roasted over the open flames.  Maybe they shouldn’t have built the fire so big, but hell, they hadn’t seen walkers in more than a day, and they were hungry.  They’d earned the fire, and the meat.

They huddled around the fire, tentative smiles on their faces as they dug into their supper, glad for even the smallest reprieve these days.  Dean tore a chunk of meat from the deer’s leg and passed it to Castiel, who took it, and ate, even though he didn’t really need to.  Sometimes it was hard to keep up appearances, but this was something he could easily do.  He bit into the meat and said a polite thank you to Dean and Daryl both, for providing.  Even though the sustenance was currently unnecessary, it was still warm, and flavorful, and Castiel was grateful for it.  And for the company.

He’d seen enough movies to know that sitting around a campfire with food and good friends was a classic human idea of a good time, and Castiel wasn’t disappointed.  It was nice to be in the presence of so many good people.  They all spoke happily with each other about the journey, and the destination, and about other, less important things.  They even began to reminisce. 

It began with Daryl Dixon mentioning offhandedly that hunting was no big deal because he’d been doing it for most of his life.  When he was a child, he was often left alone for long periods of time, and he’d learned early on how to fend for himself, so that he wouldn’t go hungry.  Castiel wasn’t surprised that the admission caught Dean’s attention, but he _was_ surprised when Dean decided to comment, saying “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Daryl shrugged and smirked, asking “You been there, too?”

“Yeah, man,” Dean said in between large, smacking bites, “my old man used to leave me and Sammy alone all the time when we were growing up.  Usually shitty hotel rooms, sometimes better, sometimes worse.”

“What’d you do?”  Maggie asked, sitting forward and frowning.

Dean shrugged now.  “Whatever I had to do to get by.  But we made due.”

Castiel frowned.  He really didn’t like hearing about John Winchester’s neglect and the suffering that Dean and Sam had had to endure as children.  He clenched his jaw—he had to in order to keep his mouth shut on the topic.  But not everyone was as upset as he was by the news.  In fact, Sam took that moment to sit forward from where he was pressed between Dean and Sasha and add “Dean did more than just get us by—he practically raised me.”  Sam smiled sweetly at his brother, and still managed to dodge the shove Dean aimed at him playfully.  “Seriously, though… Dean’s always done whatever he needed to take care of me, and I’m proud of him for that.”

It might have gotten uncomfortable, then, but Sasha nudged her own brother in the shoulder and said “Yeah, Tyreese was always trying to take care of me too.”

“You never let me though.”  Tyreese teased with a grumble before taking another bite of his meal.

“That’s because I can take care of myself.”  Sasha insisted.  “Doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate it, though.”

“To family.”  Beth said, raising her water in a salute.

“To family.”  The group echoed, hopeful and mournful, all at once.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They moved on.  The light grew longer with each passing day, and they were making good progress through the Appalachian mountains.  Soon they’d be through, and on their way up into Ohio.  Sometimes it felt like they’d been climbing mountains forever—sore feet, and aching backs, and nails busted and torn from scrabbling over rocks all day.  Sometimes it almost felt natural.

It was almost a week after the two groups had joined that they stumbled upon a cabin in the middle of the woods, intact, but obviously abandoned—probably for months.  Michonne and Carol wanted to press on, but in the end, the rest of the group won out.  They were all tired, and hungry, and they weren’t gonna turn down a roof over their heads for a night.

The fates were with them, it seemed, because the cabin was still pretty clean, and well-maintained, except for a layer of dust that covered everything.  There was no sign that walkers had ever been there, and the doors and windows all had functioning locks.  Better yet, the cabin had pillows and blankets, and a wood stove.  And in the top cupboard in the kitchen, Carl discovered about ten jars of peanut butter, most likely hoarded for the end times.

The jars were passed around, and people took turns scooping some out onto spoons or fingers, and giggling about how good it tasted, after all this time. 

The cabin was warm, and close—crowded, actually, with all 19 of them crammed inside.  But it was safer than any place they’d been in a while, and there was food and pillows, and it was sort of like a party.  Everyone was laughing, and joking, and enjoying just being able to lay down on something soft for a change, with more than the stars over their heads.

It was nice.  Even Dean could admit that, but after about an hour of it, he had to get out of there.  It was too hot, too close, too much.  Cas tried to follow him, but Dean waved him off.  He just needed to get a breath of fresh air.  Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and walked down the overgrown path circling the cabin, relishing the moment he had to himself.

Dean found Rick behind the cabin, leaning casually against a battered old fence post that still stood bastion to a crooked barbed wire fence that had long since sagged in.  He looked almost…relaxed…as he stared out at the ever-distant mountains as the sun sank slowly behind them.  “Mind if I join you?”  Dean asked, effectively announcing his presence.  He had a feeling Rick might have already known he was there, though—Dean had heard something about him being a cop before…all this.

“Why not?” Rick answered, waving vaguely.  “It’s a nice night, and I guess some company wouldn’t hurt.”

Dean sidled up to the fence and shifted on his feet.  Mostly, he didn’t feel like talking, but they still hadn’t quite managed to escape the tension that came with smashing two groups of people, two groups of _survivors_ together into one place.  There was still a lot up in the air—where they were going, where they had been, who to trust—and so Dean cleared his throat, and asked “What’s on your mind?”

Rick snorted and shook his head sadly.  “Dark thoughts.”  He glanced at Dean quickly, then away.  “It wouldn’t be right to burden you with them.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to snort.  “I doubt anything you say could make the situation any worse.  Lay it on me.  If you want, I meant.”

Rick hesitated, for a moment, before he cleared his throat and said “Your family, you take care of them.  And they respect you, listen to you—I know, I’ve seen it.”

Dean shifted uneasily, thinking of how Rick was right—how Dean would do anything for Sam and Cas, and how they were willing to follow him into hell and back.  “Yeah…?”

“Don’t you ever get…tired?”  Rick’s eyes were hopeless, agonized, as he asked the question.

“All the damn time, man.  Hell, everyone does.”  Seeing where this conversation was heading, Dean held up a hand.  “Doesn’t mean you’re a bad leader.  You take care of your people too.  They follow you.”

“Maybe it’d be better if they didn’t have so much faith in me.”

Dean frowned.  “What do you mean?”

Rick ran a frustrated hand through his too-long hair.  “I mean we’re wandering all over kingdom come, chasing a dream.  Home, safety, those things just don’t exist anymore, if they ever did.  I know.  We tried.  We tried so many times, but it never worked.  Whenever we finally let our guard down and thought we’d found it, it was taken from us.  It’s better now not to even think of such things, but here were are, hoping anyways.”

Dean leaned against the fence, blowing out a breath in the cold, darkening air.  “You know, I used to think the same thing.  I spent most of my life thinking that way, actually.  But I eventually realized that home isn’t a place.  Not ever.  Home is the people you care about.  Your family.  And you can carry that with you.”  Rick nodded, understanding.  “Still, though,” Dean mused, “there is a place where we can all be safe.  It does exist, and we’re headed there.”

Rick snorted.  “I wish I could believe that, but it hurts too much when it’s taken away.  We were at a prison for Christ’s sake.  Not long ago.  It was one of the most fortified, defensible places you could be.  And it was still taken from us.  Still over-run by walkers.  You telling me you got a place safer than that?”

Dean nodded.  “I do.  It’s where my family lives, and it’s the safest place on earth.”  Rick stared into Dean’s eyes, torn between disbelief and painful longing.  Dean cleared his throat and looked away.  “I’ll show it to you.  I promise.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

I-64 had been surprisingly quiet so far, and the whole group was silently grateful for it.  They’d been traveling through mountains and forests for so long, they were almost afraid to get back to a road again, and they’d emerged onto the blacktop cautiously, holding their breath.  But aside from a smattering of abandoned cars, debris, and the occasional walker, the highway was clear.  And so they began their northward trek, shoes slapping against the pavement as they wound their way through the remnants of a different time.

They passed by Beckley and a dozen or so road-side gas stations with no trouble.  A few times they were even lucky enough to find some supplies left scattered through the abandoned shelves.  They loaded up with what they could carry, and kept moving north.

 

 

 

 

Chelyan was just like so many other small towns smattered throughout West Virginia, built on coal and a hell of a lot of hard work, and then hit hard by the Depression, and later a combination of apathy, government regulation, and economic decline.  It was still a mining town, criss-crossed with enough train tracks to haul the fuel away.  It wasn’t pretty, hell, it wasn’t even really practical anymore, but Dean was never the kind of person to sneer at another person’s livelihood.  He’d come from a family of blue-collar workers, and he knew what it was like to work a long, hard day at a job with little thanks.  He respected those people.  Or at least, he had.

Now Chelyan was a ghost town, and the tracks were silent.

It wasn’t chance that brought them to Chelyan. It was I-64.  However, that didn’t mean that passing through wasn’t necessary, and in fact, Chelyan offered them an opportunity that anywhere else surrounding the area did not, and that was a crossing.  Rivers and streams cut through the region, some of them small, other practically impassable without a bridge, especially at this time of year, when much of the state’s fresh water was still frozen, the rest of it absolutely frigid—not practical for crossing.

They’d planned the crossing before they ever reached Chelyan, but now they knew it was necessary.  They were near the river, bags weighed down with supplies, preparing for the crossing, when they heard the tell-tale moans and wheezing, the dragging sounds of dead feet fast approaching them en masse.  A herd of walkers, they determined, marching down the side of the valley, straight for them.  They had no choice but to cross now, or get caught in the crowd, outnumbered, with a roaring, freezing river at their backs. 

It was too late to retreat, too late to hide, so they ran for the bridge that they could see in the distance—their greatest hope of survival, a chance to get out of this place in once piece.

 

 

 

 

 

The bridge still stood, suspended, over the roaring river below, swollen beyond its banks by the recent snow melt.  It was a long stretch of green metal: a promise, and a challenge.  A sign bolted to the bridge read “Trucks, buses, cross one at a time.”  However, in the mad rush toward safety, vehicles had piled up side by side along the bridge, and remained now, after everything else had passed.  And so now it was the gauntlet that they would have to run—squeezing between cars, or leap-frogging over them, all while moving swiftly, and silently, and praying to God that the metal didn’t give way under the strain of all that constant weight and recent neglect.   The press of walkers at their backs funneled them towards it—it was dangerous, but not crossing was worse.  And so they entered the maze, one or two at a time, pushing forward.

They scurried across the cars that were packed too tight to navigate around.  Some of them still housed the dead bodies of those who had gotten trapped and perished, other cars’ windshields were smashed in, the interiors still stained a dark, dirty brown by the spill of blood that was likely left by hungry walkers. 

Rick, Daryl, and Abraham led the way through the maze, weapons drawn as they scrambled over rusted metal and maneuvered around the crush of abandoned vehicles and discarded belongings.  The Winchesters and Cas brought up the rear, the rest of the group hurried onto the bridge between them.  They all moved quick, and quiet, except for Judith, who cried out halfway across the river. 

It was close—Dean and Cas had just shoved Sam, Sasha, and Rosita onto the bridge when the herd closed in, summoned by the scent of fresh meat and Judith’s cries.  They noticed the survivors right away, and a group of the herd broke off, stalking them on their retreat.  The group was lucky enough that the crossing was treacherous and narrow, but still some walkers managed to fit themselves into the gaps between cars and pursue them, decrepit jaws gnashing, bony, bloody fingers grasping for any single one of them.

The metal of the  bridge creaked and groaned as they made their way across it.  Dean knew that it might collapse under their weight, but he found himself hoping, praying that it didn’t.  _Not yet.  They were all so close.  Let them all just make it across._

They were almost there, almost, so damn close, when Dean heard someone scream up ahead, and then Rick shout “Don’t stop!” followed by Abraham’s “Push through!  We gotta push through!”

Dean scurried over another car backwards, leg kicking out at the walker that tried to grab him as he did so, and managed to shout to Sam, who wasn’t too far ahead, “What’s happening?”

“There are walkers on the other side!”

“Son of a bitch!”  Dean hissed, pulling out his gun and shooting another walker point blank in its face right before it could take a chunk out of his leg.  “Keep moving!”  Dean shouted.  When the walker’s face exploded and it dropped with a wet squelching sound, Dean managed to get a glimpse of the other side of the bridge, and he felt the air die in his chest.  Walkers swarmed the other side, the herd obviously broken in two further up the river. 

They were trapped—walkers were pressing close on both sides of the bridge, just waiting for a meal.  The survivors couldn’t stay on the bridge, though—with every moment they remained on it, more ominous creaks and groans echoed in the morning air, mingling with the shouts of panic and the moans of the walking dead.  They had no choice but to push forward, shooting and swinging as they emerged from the mouth of the bridge.  They tried to hold tight as a group, and push forward together as a defense, but they were strung out too far apart in the crossing, and it wasn’t possible.  Rick and Abraham fought to keep the mouth of the bridge open for the others, but they were constantly being pulled further and further away.  With each new addition to the fray, the walkers closed in behind them, around them, mindlessly swarming for the chance for some blood. 

A spatter of gunfire and more screams echoed across the river, shaking the otherwise stillness of the air, and Chelyan became a battleground, a fight to avoid an almost inevitable massacre. 

By the time the Winchesters made it across, they’d lost sight of most of the group, noticing only the flurried and frenzied movements of slicing and hacking and shooting, as each person was surrounded by the mass of groaning, writhing bodies.  “Get the kids!”  Rick shouted, above the din.  “Get the kids to safety!  Carl!  Judith!  Beth!”

“Where are they?!”  Sam screamed.

“I’m here!”  Carl cried, before he fired off another shot into the face of a walker.  “Tyreese has Judith!”  Another shot.  “Oh my god!” 

“Dean!”  Cas shouted, and Dean turned to see Cas’s face pinched with fear and rage, his sword out, stabbing left and right.  Dean could see the question in his eyes, the threat.

“No, Cas!  Keep fighting!”  They couldn’t take the chance.  They couldn’t.  They’d make it out of this another way.  They had to. 

“Rosita!”  Maggie screamed, and then a spurt of automatic gunfire shook the air.  “Eugene!  Carol, help them!  Carol!”

The world was fucking ending again, all around them.  The world blurred into streaks of color—green and gray, and red—and muffled noises.  Shouts of rage and pain and fear, gunshots, and the constant shuffles and moans, as the herd continued to press close, undeterred by anything that the group did.  They fought forever, past the point where Dean ran out of bullets, past the point where his arm was tired, and his face was coated in blood from hacking at the constant press of mindless, hungry bodies.  Past the point where the rest of the world faded away, and he lost track of everyone he loved, past the point where he could possibly focus on anything except for _breathe, swing, dodge, move, breathe, do it again._

Somehow people were still standing, still fighting.  The ground was littered with bodies without heads, bodies with their faces smashed in or blown away.  Bodies missing arms and legs, guts spilled out over the still-frozen ground.  The herd was a big one, and they were still coming, but maybe they were winning?  Maybe they would survive this.  Maybe….

Dean struck down another walker, and gained a moment of sudden clarity, a moment where he was able to breathe in and steady his shaking limbs for just a moment, just long enough to try to gain stock of the situation: Small groups of survivors huddled together, fighting back to back, against a dwindling crowd of walkers.  He saw Michonne, and Eugene, and Sam.  Through the chaos, he managed to catch Cas’s eyes above the heads of the walkers, and saw the angel push toward him, sword slashing and stabbing, as Cas tore through the remaining walkers in his bid to get to Dean’s side.  And then Dean turned to his left and saw Carl, his back against a large oak tree, feebly swinging a machete at a group of four walkers that were crowding in on him. 

Dean didn’t even think about it, couldn’t, didn’t have time.  He slashed his way toward Carl, and severed the head of one of the walkers, who would’ve taken a chunk from the boy.  “Run!”  Dean tried to yell, but he was out of breath, and the word came out as a gasp.  “Run!”

Still, Carl must have understood, because the boy, face spattered with blood and gore, hat askew, and eyes terrified, pushed away from the tree and began to fight his way toward the center of the clearing, where a group of the others were huddled close.  Dean swung his machete and tore through another walker, then turned to follow Carl.

The walker surprised him, mid-turn.  Dean’s blade was down from another downward stroke, still dripping blood, when the walker stumbled forward, and grabbed him tight, with hands on his shoulders.  Dean heard his name echo over the din, a furious, terrified shout, and a rumble of thunder, just as the walker leaned forward, mouth wide, and sank its teeth in. 

Dean’s eyes widened in shock, and he opened his mouth to scream, but the sound died on a gurgle as the walker tore his throat out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I sorry? No. Should I be? Probably. Please refrain from killing me, or else I can't write the next chapter :) Also, please have faith. Shit just got real, but it ain't over yet!


	18. Grace

 

 

His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath ragged, as he spun and stabbed, and fought through the tangle of limbs and spray of blood.  Even over the din of battle, Castiel could hear Dean, could _feel_ him.  Heartbeat, and breath, and his soul burning so bright, even as his body grew tired.

Castiel struggled to control himself in the face of the overwhelming odds, as the swarm of walkers separated and surrounded the members of their group.  Dean had said _no_ , he couldn’t do it.  Couldn’t use his Grace to fight—it would betray their greatest secret, and put them all in danger.  So he pushed it back, and used his body and his sword instead, spilling blood the way he’d been trained to do as a warrior of Heaven.

Still, though, Castiel could count them all, the humans, spread out in the valley—he kept track of them as they were pulled further and further apart.  They were light: glowing spots of movement amid the swarming, stinking darkness of the walkers.  He mapped each one in his mind, and followed them, even as he fought like an ordinary man. 

Despite the chaos, there was a moment when everything seemed clear, and he was able to spot Dean over the heads of their enemies, and track him, as he fought his way to Carl.  A bolt of trepidation shot through Castiel, and he pushed his way through the groping hands and biting faces of the walkers, following Dean, doing his best to get to him.  He was aware of Sam also drawing closer, fighting to get to his brother, to help him and the boy. 

“Run!” Dean croaked, then “ _Run!_ ” louder this time.  He slashed at a walker, and turned to follow Carl, but came up short, with a walker practically on top of him. 

“Dean!”  Sam screamed, shoving his way forward, too late.  The name was torn from Sam’s lips, the panicked cry of a child, the frantic shout of a helpless man.  It pierced through Castiel and shuddered in his bones, as he watched, wide-eyed, and still too far away, as his greatest fear was actualized. 

The walker lurched forward, sinking its teeth into Dean’s throat. 

The world slowed around them, cruelly, and Castiel was able to watch Dean’s eyes widen in shock in perfectly clear detail.  He saw Dean try to scream, heard the gurgle of blood.  With the last of his strength, Dean shoved the walker away and slashed at its face so that it fell, unmoving, before his feet. 

Thunder rolled around them, echoing through the valley, and Castiel did not even realize that it was he who made the sound, that his tenuous self-control had finally snapped.  That righteous fury was rumbling just under the surface of his skin, through him, and from him.  The ground shook with each slow-motion step he took, and around him, the walkers fell, their brains turned to ash, their bodies burned out by his very presence.

“Noooo!”  The scream was pure agony, echoing all around them.  “Dean!!!”  He wasn’t sure whether it was he or Sam, or both of them who called out to him so pitifully.

 

 

 

 

Dean stood there for a fraction of a second, eyes wide and terrified, and staring across the space toward Castiel and his brother.  He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat had been torn open, and his voice taken.  Blood bubbled on his lips, and splashed the ground as he staggered forward a step, reaching…. His eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped gracelessly to his knees.

They caught him before he could fall.  He slumped into their arms, his blood spilling over them, soaking their clothes, smearing their skin.  “Dean,” Sam sobbed, as he and Castiel maneuvered themselves so that Dean could lie down. 

Castiel was dimly aware of people gathering around them, of voices frantic and shouting, then quieting to murmurs of grief and shock. 

They lowered Dean so that he could rest with his head cushioned in Castiel’s lap.  Castiel ran his hands, wet with Dean’s own blood, over Dean’s face, reverently, until they came to rest on his neck, where blood continued to pump weakly from the gaping wound. 

Everything was blurry.   Only when Castiel noticed that Sam wept bitterly next to him, did he realize the reason why his own vision was clouded.  His own salty tears traced muddy, bloody tracks down his face until they splashed onto Dean’s quickly paling skin beneath him. 

All around them, he picked out nameless voices, murmurs of “Dean, no,” and “one bit him,” “there’s nothing we can do,” “he’s losing too much blood,” and “even if we _could_ save him, he’s been bitten.  He’ll turn.”

Castiel took a breath, and shuddered.  Dean’s eyes were closed, his face strangely relaxed, as Castiel peered down at him. 

This was not the first time that Castiel had been forced to watch Dean Winchester die. 

He held Dean’s life-blood in with his bare hands, and he took another breath.  Dean’s pulse was so weak now, and Castiel could feel the taint spreading through Dean’s body, even as his soul began to dim. 

“No,” Castiel whispered down at Dean’s prone body, cradled lovingly, protectively in his arms.  _Please forgive me._ “I’m not letting you die today, Dean Winchester.”

Castiel bowed his head over Dean’s own, and closed his eyes.  He exhaled, and finally let go.  Let go of everything—his fear, and his anger, and himself. 

His Grace was a supernova, and he pushed it into every inch of Dean, holding him tightly, even as Dean’s body bowed unnaturally with the unbearable force of it.  It burnt through him, cleansing and purifying, igniting every trace of the virus as it went.  The fire of a million stars flowed through Dean’s veins, more than the man was ever meant to endure on his own, and it _hurt_. 

Castiel’s strength wasn’t enough.  Sam had to pin Dean’s arms to the ground, as _Castiel_ flowed through him, knitting together the flesh, and muscle, and veins that had been torn and infected. 

It was bittersweet—Castiel had done this once before, when he raised Dean from Perdition.  It was pure, the most loving, and yet simultaneously the most selfish thing Castiel could ever do for Dean Winchester.

  _I won’t let you go,_ Castiel prayed back to him, _I can’t.  I don’t know how to._ Dean shuddered as Castiel’s Grace washed through him, wiping the taint away, rebuilding his body, healing his wounds, and replenishing all that spilt blood.

_Cas_.  It wasn’t a whisper, not quite.  More like a longing, an aching, tentative touch.  Dean’s soul reached out for Castiel’s Grace, as it had always done, welcoming it into his body, even as it burned him.  Inch by agonizing inch, Castiel coaxed Dean back, even as he burnt himself out. 

“Dean,” he whispered, breathing breath back into the body of the person he loved most in the world. 

Castiel was so empty now, so empty.  How much more could he give?  How much more was _left_ to give?  His own heart stuttered, and his body grew rigid.  Distantly, he realized he was going into shock.  “Dean.”  He mumbled, opening his eyes weakly.

He was collapsing inside, the way that all stars do, eventually.  His lungs seized up, and his heart stuttered, and a second later, Dean’s bright green eyes flickered open, alive, and gazed up at him in confused wonder.  It was enough.  Castiel smiled down at him, relieved, before he fell, and the darkness took him.


	19. Wrath...

 

 

There was pain, an all-encompassing, burning pain that filtered through every part of him, that lit up every nerve.  And yet Dean found himself cradled in the purest light he had ever experienced.  It was in him, and all around him, and it filled him with contentment, made him believe for the first time in his life that he was truly safe.  And, against all odds, he recognized that light, that holy fire.  He reached for it, determined to hold it as close as he could, determined to never let it go.  _Cas._

 

 

The world flooded back to Dean in an instant—the warmth of a body cradling his, and strong hands on his face, the cold, hard ground beneath him.  Voices all around him, a dull roar.  Dean opened his eyes and for a moment, all he saw was blue.  Bright, piercing blue, so much like that light—and he’d know it anywhere.  Dean smiled, and reached a hand up to touch.  “Cas,” he murmured, and just as his fingertips brushed Cas’s cold, pale cheek, the blue eyes fluttered closed, Cas swayed for a moment, and then he was falling backwards, unconscious.

 

 

Dean struggled up, his joints protesting at the sudden twist, and he turned, hovering over Cas’s now still body.  Dean reached for him, his fluttery, frantic hands skittering over Cas’s body and face, both of which were smeared in thick, sticky blood.  _Oh God,_ Dean thought.  Where was he hurt?!  “Cas!”  He hissed, shaking the angel, but there was no response, except for Cas’s head to loll sickeningly to the side.  “CAS!”

Dean jerked his head up to call for help, to demand some answers, and only then did he finally notice the scene around him. 

His first impression was carnage.  The bodies of walkers lay all around him, hacked and severed, their brains blown out and heads chopped off, missing limbs.  Some of them had had their eyes burned out and their very bodies looked singed, as though they’d stumbled too close to a bonfire.  The half-frozen ground was stained in blood and gore, and if Dean was a man of a weaker stomach, he might have heaved all over the place.  But he wasn’t, and his concern wasn’t for the motionless walkers, but instead for the unconscious angel lying below him. 

Dean glanced to the side.  Sam knelt next to he and Cas, mouth hanging open, speechless.  His dirt and blood-smeared face was streaked with tear-stains, and he held his hands out before him, aborted in an attempt to grab him, maybe.  It looked like helpless supplication.  His face was frozen in an expression of wordless awe. 

Rick’s group of survivors, those that Dean had begun to allow himself to consider to be friends, were ringed loosely around them, faces horrified, shocked, and wary, weapons drawn and pointed at the Winchesters once more.

“What _THE FUCK_ was that?!”  Surprisingly, it was Glenn’s voice that made the demand.

In that moment, Dean remembered the walker lurching toward him, remembered the sharp, burning feel of the creature tearing into him, and he realized what must have happened.  He glanced back down at Cas, who looked so helpless and weak right now, with his floppy hair, and pale, blood-stained skin, so devoid of his usual power, and Dean just _knew_ what Cas had done for him. 

He was suddenly furious, incensed by the idea that anyone _dared_ to pull a weapon on them in this moment.  Dean was reaching for his own weapon before he even realized it, lips pulling back in a snarl at the rage he felt for everyone and everything.  How could this happen?  _HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?!_

Sam caught him by the shoulders, steadying him, as he crouched protectively over Cas.  It’s the only thing that stopped Dean from drawing blood.  “Dean, stop,” Sam murmured, loud enough that everyone could hear him in the suddenly deathly-still valley—only the rushing of the river continued on, unimpeded.  “They have a right to be shocked and afraid right now.  We owe them an explanation.”

Maybe that was true, and if Dean were not frantic with fear at the moment, he might even be willing to concede the point.  After all, these people, _civilians,_ had just witnessed Cas slaughter a valley full of walkers with the sheer power of his rage, and then proceed to…what?  Resurrect Dean right in front of them?

Unfortunately, Dean wasn’t feeling reasonable.  All he could see was Cas lying still and pale below him, drenched in Dean’s blood.  All he could hear was _Dean,_ spoken in that deep, comforting voice.  They needed to back off right the fuck now, all of them.  Dean was standing on the edge of a precipice, an abyss of rage and violence before him, and unfortunately for these people, the only person who could pull him back in this moment was lying unconscious before him.  His self-control was fraying rapidly, and if they didn’t take their weapons out of his and Cas’s faces, he might not be able to stop himself from lashing out.  It might even be worse than what Cas had done.

 

 

“You’ve got three seconds to start talking,” Rick growled, his machete held out, pointed toward the Winchesters.  “What the hell just happened?”

Sam laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and cleared his throat, his voice still choked-up as he said “Stop, please.  Everyone, calm down.  I’ll answer all of your questions, I promise.  Just… don’t treat them like this.”  In that moment, Sam was half peace-keeper, half desperate younger brother, doing his best to prevent any further bloodshed. 

“Your brother was dead, or dying, and on his way to becoming a walker and now…!” Tara screeched, her eyes wide.  “What…what happened?  What _was_ that?”

“He’s an alien, isn’t he?  Oh God, he’s an alien!”  Eugene cried, voice miserable.  “I knew it could get worse!”

“He’s sure as hell somethin’,” Daryl murmured, shifting uneasily on his feet as he stared down at Cas’s motionless body, “and it ain’t human.”

“Don’t,” Dean growled, eyes shifting from one face to another, “don’t talk about him like that.”

“We need answers,” Carol insisted, and in other circumstances, Dean might even be impressed by how steady her voice was.  “We deserve answers.”

“Fine,” Sam agreed, with his hands up and spread wide in peace, “we can do that, just as soon as Cas wakes up.”

“No,” Rick said, “we need answers now.”  Dean shot him a murderous glare and Rick stopped for a moment, focusing on Dean.  “I don’t mean any disrespect, but we just watched your friend waste a bunch of walkers _without even touching them_.  It was like a goddamn nuke went off!  And then you’re miraculously healed?  What did he do?”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean snarled.  “His name is _Cas_ , and he just saved all of your asses!”

“Look, I promise to explain everything,” Sam blurted, in an effort to calm everyone, “but can we please get to someplace safer so that we can take care of him first?  You all have a right to be freaked out, but he’s still our family, and we’re not just gonna leave him here.”

 

 

 

 

Dean had to grit his teeth to keep himself from screaming as he and Sam braced Cas’s limp body between them and hauled him up the hill to a much safer and cleaner location, devoid of blood and gore.  They laid him down gently in the center of a small clearing, and Dean arranged them so that Cas could rest his head in Dean’s lap, their positions now ironically reversed. 

It was in Dean’s nature to lie, to defend his family, and to bluff, charm, and threaten his way through situations like this.  But now, he couldn’t even bring himself to meet the eyes of the people around him—he already knew they were full of fear and judgment.  In this case, Dean thought it best to let Sam do the talking.  Dean was preoccupied, anyway. 

 

 

The conversation between Sam and the others was background noise to him.  “So what happened back there?”  “What _is_ he?”  “Who are you people?”  Countless voices demanded.  Carl was kind enough to fetch a bowl of clean water, which he sat next to Dean before he retreated to stand next to his father. 

Dean rummaged in his duffle until he found an old t-shirt, which he bundled up and dipped in the water.  Distantly, he heard Sam calmly explaining the sorts of things that they’d occasionally had to confess in their line of work.  Most people didn’t believe them, even if they witnessed something supernatural happen.  Dean didn’t expect these people to be any different.  “There are a lot of unexplained things that exist in this world,” Sam’s voice explained, in soothing tones.  “It didn’t start with the walkers, and they’re not the only things we’ve seen.”

Dean used the ragged t-shirt to begin cleaning the blood off of Cas’s body.  He started with gentle swipes over Cas’s cheeks and forehead, revealing pale skin under the coat of dirt and thick, tacky blood.  “What else _is_ there?”  Someone asked—Dean didn’t bother trying to figure out who.

Sam wasted his breath explaining about the monsters under the bed, and about real evil.  Things like demons, and the devil.  Dean heard snorts of disbelief and angry protests.  He tuned them out.  There was so much blood all over Cas.  Dean cleaned what he could from his face and neck and hands, but Cas’s clothes were drenched in it too.  Nothing he could do about that now.  He’d have to wait for Cas to wake up… however long that’d be.  Jesus, how much had Dean _bled_?  Just how close to death had he _been_?  What the fuck had Cas done in front of these people?

“Me and Dean, we grew up hunting those things.  It was our job, our mission.  We weren’t the only ones…there was a whole community of people just like us.”

Dean shoved the bloody bowl of water away and tried to make himself comfortable.  It was strange.  Despite what had happened to him, he felt… _good_ right now.  Whole.  Content, inside his soul, even if his mind was a whirlwind of panic and anger and grief.  “You expect us to believe that?” A voice snarled.  Who was that?  One of the soldiers?

Sam’s voice was dry, frustrated when he drawled “You fight zombies on a daily basis.”

“You’re not one of those things, though?  You and your brother, you’re human?”

“Yeah.”  Sam’s shoulders sagged. 

“He ain’t though.”

Dean tuned out again, so that he wouldn’t lash out.  He ran his fingers soothingly through Cas’s dark, matted hair.  He wasn’t sure which one of them it was meant to comfort. 

“So what is he?”

Man, Cas really needed a bath.  They all did, actually.  Dean grimaced when he realized that if Cas was covered in Dean’s blood, that meant Dean was as well.  Well, that wasn’t likely to comfort anyone, was it?  Jesus, when was Cas gonna wake up?  _Come on, man, wake up.  Please._   Maybe it was a prayer, maybe it was just a thought.  Did it fucking matter anymore?  They’d been the same damn thing for years now, anyway.

“He’s an angel.”  Dean felt his brother’s words shiver through his bones.  _Is he?_ Dean thought, running his hand over Cas’s cool skin again.  _He doesn’t look like one right now.  Son of a bitch._

“No fucking way.”  A chorus of protest.

“Look, you asked, and I told you!  Believe me or not, I don’t care anymore.”  That was Sam’s mulish voice.

“So what, that was a miracle?  You expect us to believe that?  Look around you!  Miracles don’t happen!”

“Then what do you think just happened?”  God, so many of them were babbling away now.

“So what is he?  Your guardian angel or something?  Why you?  Why Dean?”

Sam’s voice was biting when he said “Cas is _family_.”  He waved his hand.  “Just leave us here, alright?  We’re not gonna ask you to stay.”

Dean didn’t care either way, anymore.  It was always a strange hope, anyways.  Who were they kidding?  They couldn’t have friends.  They couldn’t even really help people anyone.  Whenever they tried, they destroyed themselves in the process.  Cas’s pulse was sluggish and weak under Dean’s palm, and his breathing was too shallow, but it was there.  Now _that_ was the real miracle here.  The rest of these sons of bitches could go fuck themselves.

“That’s not right, though.”  This was a younger voice—maybe Carl, maybe Beth?  “They’ve been with us all this time and haven’t hurt us, when it’s plain now that they could have.”  The voice rose, and yeah, that was Beth.  “They offered us a home.”

“She’s got a point.”  And _that_ was Tyreese, even though his voice shook. 

“Dean tried to save me!”  Carl added.

Someone was praying feverishly in the background.  Latin, in a deep, hurried voice.  “ _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, exaudi vocem meam: Fiant aures tuae intendentes_ , _in vocem deprecationis meae._ ”

“If he _is_ an angel, can we really turn him away?” 

“Oh God, what have we done?”

“Maybe he’s the answer to our prayers.” Was that… Rosita?  “I prayed for so long.”

_“Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: Domine, quis sustinebit? Quia apud te propitiatio est: et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine.”_

“How else are we gonna explain it?  We all saw what he did.”

“If we can accept that the dead walk, why are angels so hard to believe?”

_“Sustinuit anima mea in verbo eius: speravit anima mea in Domino. A custodia matutina usque ad noctem: speret Israel in Domino.”_

“Jesus, people!  Does it even matter anymore?”

“We’ve eaten with these people, slept beside them, _fought_ beside them!”

“So what?  We should just accept it?”

“Or not.  That’s up to you.”

Then, finally, “We’ll stay.  Get a fire started.”

_“Quia apud Dominum misericordia: et copiosa apud eum redemptio. Et ipse redimet Israel, ex omnibus iniquitatibus eius.”_

Dean tightened his grip on Cas and closed his own eyes.  _Cas, can you hear me?  Cas, are you there?  Come back, man.  Come back._

The voices were all whispers now, fading in and out of Dean’s hearing.

This whisper, though, was a distraught tremble, barely loud enough for Dean to hear: “ **What’s wrong with him?** ”

_“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prayer is from Psalm 129: "De Profundis" An English translation is: 
> 
> Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord: * Lord, hear my voice.  
> Let Thy ears be attentive * to the voice of my supplication.  
> If Thou, O Lord, wilt mark iniquities: * Lord, who shall stand it?  
> For with Thee there is merciful forgiveness: * and by reason of thy law, I have waited for Thee, O Lord.  
> My soul hath relied on His word, * my soul hath hoped in the Lord.  
> From the morning watch even until night, * let Israel hope in the Lord.  
> Because with the Lord there is mercy: and with him plentiful redemption.  
> And he shall redeem Israel * from all his iniquities.  
> Glory be to the Father and to the Son, * and to the Holy Spirit.  
> As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, * world without end. Amen.


	20. ...Of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone! Work and life have been busy knocking me around a bit. I hope this chapter makes up for the wait :)

 

 

 

Two days. 

Two days, Dean sat, holding vigil over Cas’s unconscious body, praying that he would wake up soon.  Two days of feeling that extra bit of warmth to his own limbs, of feeling guilty for holding so much strength in his own hands, of knowing that it was Cas’s Grace, the Grace he himself so desperately needed, that Dean helplessly withheld from him.  Two days of poking the fire, and wrapping Cas in warm clothes, of holding his hand, and feeding him water.

Two days for the others to make peace with the knowledge of what Cas was, or at least to learn how to get over it.

Two days after the catastrophe at the bridge, Cas finally moaned in his sleep, rolled over, and blinked his eyes open.

“Dean?”  He croaked, throat dry from disuse.  “Dean?”

“I’m here, Cas.”  Dean murmured, crouching down next to him.  “Drink this.”  He handed Cas a bottle of water, and hovered while Cas struggled to push himself up (Dean had to help) and then proceeded to drain the bottle, choking once or twice as he did so.

“Are you alright?”  Cas asked, wiping his mouth, as soon as the water was gone.  His eyes were clear, alert, which Dean was suddenly very thankful for.  He’d been worried that Cas wouldn’t be… _right_ when he woke.

Dean huffed out a laugh and pulled Cas close.  “I’m fine, Cas.  Thanks to… well.  How are you feeling?”

Cas rolled his shoulders experimentally and said “I feel fine.  Perhaps a bit…hungry, though?  Where are we, Dean?”

“We’re still in Chelyan, on the other side of the bridge.”

Cas blinked.  “How…long?”

“It’s been 2 whole days since you lost consciousness.”

Cas pushed his now too-long hair out of his eyes and glanced around camp over Dean’s shoulder.  Some of the others were there, huddled together for warmth while they waited, the rest off on missions to gather firewood or supplies, or scouting.  Everyone was giving Dean and Cas space, though.  Dean knew he hadn’t been making life easy for them for the last two days, but he wasn’t gonna apologize for it.  They’d get over that, too.  Cas cleared his throat and lowered his eyes.  “Do they know?”

“Yeah, Cas.  They all know now.”

“How much?”  Cas was shivering, despite the layers of clothes that Dean had bundled him in.

“Everything, basically, I think.  Sam did the talking.”

“Are they…?”  Cas’s big blue eyes were wide with worry, and perhaps a touch of sorrow. 

“They’ll get over it.”

Cas pulled away from Dean so that he could look him clearly in the eyes now, without the intimacy of touching.  “We need to talk, Dean.”

“Yeah, we do.”  Dean agreed, running a hand through his own hair in an effort to push back his frustration.  Days of waiting.  Days of praying, and thinking, and cursing.  Days of regretting.  It could wait a bit longer.  “But first, Cas, you need to eat something.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean didn’t mean for it to become an argument, but then again, when did things ever go the way he intended?  Hell, at this point, he wasn’t sure he and Cas knew how to have a serious conversation with one another about feelings _without_ it turning into a fight.  They were both just so goddamn stubborn.  Always had been.  And add on top of that the days of fear and anger and anxiety that Dean had felt, and, well… the words came of their own accord.

He’d waited until Cas had eaten, and had another bottle of water, and relieved himself, but then he’d seen the looks the others had given Cas as he’d wandered away, and Dean hadn’t been able to wait any longer.  So he’d followed Cas into the relative privacy of the trees, and confronted him. 

“Cas….”

“Yes, Dean?”  Cas asked, turning to face him.  They were close enough to see each other’s faces, but not close enough to touch, shielded from prying eyes by the tangle of branches that surrounded their little clearing. 

“Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

Cas’s eyes shuttered for a moment, and his face became almost expressionless.  “What is it you think I did?”

“You used the last of your Grace to save me, didn’t you?”

Cas was silent for a moment, his eyes trailing heavily over Dean’s face, studying every single nuance of Dean’s expression, the incredulity plastered there.  “Yes.”

“Damnit, Cas!”  Dean growled, stalking forward, hands clenched.  “Why did you do that?!”

Cas’s face still remained impassive, but he met Dean’s furious gaze.  “It wasn’t enough to just heal you, Dean.  The infection was spreading so fast—you would’ve become a walker.  I had to burn it out of you, and the only way do it was by using my Gace.  I only barely had enough.”

“So what’s the price now, Cas?  You’ve fallen, again?  You’re human?!”  When Cas didn’t deny the accusation, Dean snarled and surged forward, shoving at Cas’s shoulder.  “How could you do that, Cas?  How could you give the last of your Grace away!  In the middle of a fucking apocalypse! You’re human now!  Vulnerable!  How could you?!”

“It was the only way to save you!”  Cas protested, ignoring the way Dean had shoved him.

“IT WASN’T WORTH IT!”  Dean shouted, fire burning in his eyes. 

Cas was on him, then, shoving him back, strong fingers biting into Dean’s arms where he held him too tightly.  “Of course it was worth it!  It’s always been worth it!”

“How can you say that?!”

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”  Cas snarled. “Do you think I could’ve lived with myself if you’d died?  Do you think Sam could’ve?!”

Dean was stunned, the words echoing in his ears confusedly as his mouth dropped open.

“And this isn’t the same as before,” Cas went on, struggling to regain some control of himself.  “My Grace isn’t dwindling from having been rejected from Heaven—it’s not some slow, aching spiral.  It wasn’t taken from me.  It was my choice, Dean.  Mine!”  Cas’s eyes were so bright they were almost glowing now.  Furious.  “It was a small price to pay for your life, Dean.”  Cas’s eyes suddenly lost some of their fire, and he looked at Dean almost pleadingly.  “God help me, I would have paid a much higher price.” 

When Dean was unable to find any words to respond, Cas let go of Dean and wandered into the tree-line by himself. 

Dean watched him go.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Castiel found the man kneeling by the creek, praying silently.  He’d obviously paused in the process of filling bottles full of fresh water.  He knelt in the frost-covered mud, the knees of his pants dirty from having done so.  Castiel approached from behind, and could not see the man’s face, but the pose was one he was very familiar with.  It was practiced, casual at this point.  Hands raised in supplication, folded just about chin-level.  The man prayed silently, and Castiel couldn’t hear him, but after so many thousands of years of listening, he didn’t need to hear the exact words to understand.  The man who, despite the world ending was still dressed in black, with the white collar at his throat, stiffened suddenly, as Castiel approached.  His shoulders straightened, and he slowly allowed his hands to fall to his sides.  Castiel heard him suck in a breath, just before the man turned toward him. 

His face, usually so drawn and solemn, was now covered in tear-tracks as well.  “I’ve been praying for two days straight,” Father Gabriel said, his voice cracking on the last word.  “Are you…well?”

“I am,” Castiel said, walking the last few feet toward the priest.  “Thank you.”

Another tear rolled down Gabriel’s face.  “In the darkest days, I lost my faith.”  He whispered.  “God gave us this trial and I…I did terrible things.  I committed the worst kinds of sins… the kind that I can never even hope to seek forgiveness for.”  Gabriel’s voice hitched again, and he gazed up at Castiel, dark eyes wide and tear-glazed, but also full of awe.  “I lost my way.”

“We all do, sometimes.”  Castiel said.

Gabriel choked out a sob and reached a shaking hand up toward Castiel.  “I never would have imagined, after everything, that I would ever get my faith back.  I didn’t think I deserved it.  I thought God had abandoned us.  And in the depths of my hopelessness, you arrived, and you saved us.  An Angel of the Lord.”  Castiel only tilted his head and observed the man.  “I knew this day would come.  I admit I feared it, but I don’t anymore.”  Gabriel gazed up at Castiel imploringly and spread his arms wide.  “You’ve given me my faith back, and you’ve helped me to make peace with what I’ve done.  I’m ready to face judgment now.”

Gabriel closed his eyes and the corner of his lips twitched up, just slightly, in honest relief.  Castiel stared at him for just a moment before he folded his legs and took a seat next to the priest, and gazed out at the half-frozen creek.  “I’m not here to judge you,” Castiel murmured.

A long time passed, but eventually Gabriel settled back down next to Castiel, and the two of them silently listened to the creek together.  Birds chirped, and the creek burbled.  Castiel cleared his throat and said “Gabriel…. That was my brother’s name.”

“The archangel.” Gabriel murmured.

“Yes,” Castiel smiled.  “I miss him.  He helped us to save the world, in the end.”  A soft wind blew through the forest, rustling the leaves overhead.  Castiel took a deep breath, and realized his chest hurt, just slightly.  “We have all done something we regret.  Something we are ashamed of.  Myself included.  I have no right to judge you.”

Gabriel bowed his head and listened. 

“In my experience, I’ve learned that God is willing to forgive a great many things.  And he often gives more than one chance.”  Castiel sighed and plucked a pebble from the creek bed.  Rolling it between his fingers, he said “All we can do is try to do better the second time around.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cas found him later that evening, after the sun had already gone down.  Dean was hovering at the edge of the clearing, the light and warmth of the campfire softly caressing his face.  He felt…tired.  He’d searched frantically for Cas after their fight, but had eventually given up, knowing that Cas could take care of himself.  Also knowing that if Dean found him, they’d likely fight again, and for what?  Dean had needed the time apart to process Cas’s words, and the confession that he’d revealed.  If you could call it that.  _I love you._ It was the first time Cas had said the words aloud, but, in his own way, he’d been saying the same thing with actions for years now, hadn’t he?  Dean had, too.  He’d just been too stupid, or too stubborn, to accept it.

Now Cas sidled up next to him, his face lined with exhaustion, the firelight flickering in his eyes, casting them into shadow.  “I don’t want to fight with you, Dean.”  Cas murmured.

“I don’t want to fight either, Cas.”  Dean replied.  Sam was giving them both a pointed look from across the fire, where he sat away from everyone else, even Sasha.  “But I don’t know how to talk to you about this.”

“Well, maybe we can try again?”  Cas tugged on Dean’s sleeve, and turned to head into the darkness.  Dean gave Sam a brief nod then followed.

They didn’t go far.  The flickering light of the fire still cast shadows here, but they were far enough away that the rest of the group hopefully wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation. 

“Why are you upset with me?”  Cas asked, and Dean could see, even in the dim light, that Cas was sad.

Dean huffed, and struggled for a moment to find the words to say what he needed to say.  “You were almost human once before, Cas, and it almost destroyed you.  Now… every day is a struggle to stay alive, but I knew that at least with your Grace, you had a good chance of making it through this mess.”  Dean sucked in a deep breath and fought to keep his voice steady.  “And now I’ve gone and fucked it all up again.  You gave your Grace away to save me, and now it’s all gone, burnt up.  And you’re human.  You need to eat and sleep, and you bleed….Jesus, Cas.  You can _die_ now.  Didn’t you think of that?”

“Of course I did.”

“You’re not an angel anymore, Cas, and I just feel like….” Dean ran a hand over his face.  “I feel like it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Dean.  How could it be?  It wasn’t your choice.”  Cas tilted his chin up, defiant, even as his voice remained calm.  “I knew what the price was when I healed you, and it was a price I was willing to pay!  I promised myself that I’d do whatever I needed to do in order to get us all back home to the bunker safely, and I meant it.  It was my choice, and I don’t regret it.”  Cas heaved a sigh and said “You’re wrong, though.”

“About what?”

“About me not being an angel.”  Cas licked his lips and met Dean’s eyes.  “My Grace isn’t the only thing that defines me, Dean.  I’m in a mortal body now, yes, but I’m still an angel.  The loss of Grace doesn’t change who I am.”  Cas looked away then, and murmured, quieter, “And anyway, the Grace isn’t completely burnt up, it’s not all gone.  There’s still a piece of it left.”

Dean sighed with relief, and said “So you still have it?  Just in case?”

Cas frowned.  “Not quite.”

Dean furrowed his brows.  “Well, what then?”

That’s when Cas took a hesitant step toward him, bringing him right into Dean’s space.  He reached out a hand slowly, and then lovingly, _reverently,_ laid his palm on Dean’s chest, murmuring “It’s here.”  Cas closed his eyes for just a moment.  “I can still feel it.”

Dean’s heart began to thump wildly under Cas’s palm, but Dean wasn’t sure whether it was from his words or his closeness.  “It’s…in _me_?”  Dean croaked.  “I have what’s left of your Grace?”

Cas opened his eyes.  “Yes.”

Dean pressed closer to Cas, insistent, when he said “Dude, but you need it!  Take it back!”  Cas’s hand was still firm against his chest.

Cas cocked his head to the side in the way he always used to do when he was trying to figure something out.  That look used to make Dean wonder whether Cas was actually looking into his soul.  “Does it bother you so much?” Cas asked, his eyes gone solemn. “That we are connected in this way now?”

Dean’s heart continued to hammer away.  “No, it’s not that!”  Dean protested, inching forward again.  Cas’s fingers curled in Dean’s shirt, where they still rested over his heart.  “But Cas… you need it.  Please.”

Cas smiled softly, then, and smoothed his hand over Dean’s shirt.  “And I know exactly where to find it.  But for now… why don’t you hold on to it?  Will you do that for me, Dean?”

Dean sighed and took that final step forward, until he and Cas were practically sharing breath.  He closed his eyes and tipped his forehead down, just barely, just enough so that it could rest gently against Cas’s.  For a moment, Dean just breathed, and took comfort in Cas’s warmth, his closeness.  The fact that he was alive, and here.  His life was a miracle.  “Yeah, Cas.”  Dean whispered, the words soft between them, “I can do that.”


	21. A Thousand Miles...Give Or Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quick status update: I think I've got at least 10 chapters left of this story, maybe more. The characters keep rebelling and doing whatever they want. *shrug* I hope you enjoy :)

 

 

 

“You have gotta be fucking kidding me.” Daryl drawled just north of I-64, where the group had stopped to restock their water and food supplies at a roadside Gas n’ Sip.

“What do you mean, we’re taking a detour?”  Glenn asked, sidling up next to Rick and Daryl, where they were having an impromptu conference with Dean and Sam. 

“It’s not a detour, as such,” Sam soothed with his hands raised in a placating gesture.  “We were always headed there.  And anyway, it’s not that far out of our way, in the long run.”  Sam pulled the road atlas from his duffle and spread it out on the counter in the abandoned gas station.  “See, we have the route already mapped.  We’re gonna avoid the chaos of Cincinnati and Louisville by taking Highway 32 south and then hooking up with the 55 in between the two.”

“Is that really necessary?”  Carol piped in.

“Yeah, it is.”  Dean said, glancing at all of the others with a look that conveyed an unwillingness to compromise on this point.  “There’s something important I have to pick up in Jackson.”

“What’s so important that we gotta swing that far out of our way?”  Maggie demanded, now joining her husband.

Dean stared at her flatly for a moment before hitching an ironic smile.  “My car.”

All eyes focused on Dean then—some incredulous, others assuming it was a joke.  When neither Sam or Dean laughed, though, the air of the group changed again.  Shoulders stiffened and eyes narrowed.

“Your car.”  Rick deadpanned.

“That’s right.”  Dean said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What the hell makes your car important enough to do that?”  Maggie growled.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, but he forced a shrug.  “Baby’s not just a car, alright.  She’s a member of the family, and she was mine and Sammy’s home for most of our lives.  And she’s definitely a good luck charm.”

“Good luck charm.”  Daryl snorted.  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit.”

Sam smirked across the group at his brother and said “Well, we averted an apocalypse once thanks to her.”

Glenn laughed, but when neither Sam or Dean did, he gaped.  “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”  Sam confirmed.

“Well, hell,” Rick said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.  He sighed deeply.  “One day, you boys are gonna have to tell us everything y’all have been through.  Jesus, _another_ apocalypse.  As if one isn’t bad enough.”

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, I’m right there with ya, pal.”  He shrugged.  “Anyway, we’re headed to Jackson.  You guys don’t have to come.  We’re not gonna twist your arm.”

Rick and Daryl seemed to communicate wordlessly for a moment, eying the others in the group as they did so, until eventually they reached an agreement.  “We’re coming.”  Rick said with a nod.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The group carried on.

Eugene still walked with the girls at the head of the pack, and Dean wondered if it was perhaps because they were still the only ones willing to show the man a bit of kindness.  Things had been tense within the group ever since Eugene had revealed his lie, and Dean didn’t honestly think a couple weeks of walking was going to change that.  The lie had formed an apparently un-crossable rift between Eugene and his former companions, Abraham and Rosita. 

Abraham brought up the rear, with Rosita at his side—perhaps just to make sure he actually kept walking.  He hadn’t said a whole lot since he realized his mission was nothing more than smoke and a vain hopefulness.  Dean knew what it was like to bear a weight so heavy that it was almost more effort than a man could spare, just to put one foot in front of the other, so he wouldn’t judge him.

Dean had to give the rest of them _some_ credit, though, he supposed.  They were nowhere near as weird as they could have been about the whole _Cas_ thing.  After all, even Dean’s world had been turned upside down when he’d learned about angels, and by that time he’d already been a hunter for most of his life.  Granted, Rick’s group were all in the midst of trying to survive a zombie apocalypse, but still.  Angels.  It was a lot to take in.  Especially learning that one of them had been walking beside you for more than a hundred miles.

They weren’t welcoming, per se, but they weren’t mean to him either.  It’s just that the group wasn’t as…warm, as they had been before finding out the truth about Cas and the Winchesters.  Dean told himself that he didn’t give a fuck, that it didn’t matter at all, but then, that was a lie, wasn’t it?  For a few brief moments on the road, the group had almost felt like another sort of family.  Dean wondered if he was dumb for allowing himself to feel that.

Best to keep walking.

Cas’s shoulder bumped his where he walked at Dean’s side.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Somewhere between Point Pleasant and Henderson, before they crossed the Ohio River, Rick found his way to Dean’s side so that they could walk together for a while.  For miles, they were silent.  They simply walked together.  Not too far ahead of them, Cas spoke in hushed tones with Sam.  Gabriel followed closely behind Cas—the priest had rarely left Cas’s immediate vicinity since learning the truth about him. 

Between one casual step and the next, Rick seemed to have sorted his thoughts and found his courage, because he finally said “You know…who you all were before the Turn doesn’t matter now.  Everything’s different.”

Dean supposed the words were supposed to be reassuring, even an offer of peace, but he couldn’t hold back a laugh.  He took a long pull off his water bottle before he replied.  “Yeah, except you know what?”  He asked, glancing at Rick consideringly for a moment out of the corner of his eye.  “Me, Sam, and Cas?  This is who we’ve _always_ been.”  Rick turned to face him, his brows furrowed.  “We didn’t change, Rick.  The rest of the world did.”  Dean kicked a pebble out of his path and shoved his water back in his bag.  “This is the first time the three of us can be honest about who we really are.”

“You were serious about that whole _saving the world_ thing, weren’t you?”  Rick finally murmured.  “And about the car, and the apocalypse?”

“Yeah.”  Dean grunted.  “It’s been a rough few years for us.  But…yeah, it’s all true.  Me, Sam, Cas, and uh… our uncle, who uh… passed away.  It’s what we’ve always done, ya know?”

“The more I learn,” Rick mused, “the more I realize I just don’t know.  There’s so much.  Too much.  I thought the walkers were as bad as it could get.”

Dean chuckled, but it was a dark sound.  “Oh, it can get worse.  Trust me.  But if it makes you feel better, me and my family have all seen worse, more than once, and we’re still standing.”

Rick shifted and laid a palm against the pistol holstered at his side.  He closed his eyes for just a moment, and Dean wondered if perhaps that was as close as the ex-deputy might come to a prayer.  “You know, that sort of does make me feel better.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sasha caught up with him two days outside of Jackson.  Sam very nearly flinched when she drew near.  She’d been avoiding him for days now.

“So,” she began, matching her stride to his, which was a feat in itself because of their size difference, “how much farther after we reach Jackson?”

Sam shrugged, and dared to shoot a glance her way.  Her face was neutral, if not relaxed.  “A thousand miles…give or take.”  Sam cleared his throat.  “But the plan is to pick up the Impala and find everyone else a ride too so that we can make good time back to Kansas.”

Sasha huffed.  “Man, we’ve been walking for so long, it’ll be weird getting into a car again.”

Sam allowed himself to laugh.  “Yeah, I’m right there with ya.”

They were quiet for a while after that.  Sam almost dreaded whatever Sasha had actually come to say to him.  He felt apprehensive around her now, unsure of where they stood with one another.

Eventually, though, Sasha broke the monotony of their steps by saying “I understand why you never told me.”  She tightened her jaw just enough that Sam noticed.  “It still hurts, though.”  She shoved her hands in her pockets, perhaps so they wouldn’t show the true extent of her upset.  “I mean, he’s your family.  I get that.  There’s not a thing in this world I wouldn’t do for my family either.  Not a lie I wouldn’t tell or a truth I wouldn’t hide if it meant keeping my brother safe.  But you gotta understand, Sam.  Things are different now.  And I don’t trust easy.”

“I _do_ understand,” Sam murmured.  “That’s why I’m not asking you to forgive me.  But I’m not going to apologize for it, either.”

“I don’t expect you to.  But that leaves us in a tough spot, and I honestly don’t want to keep trying to avoid you.  It’s exhausting, and I’m tired enough as it is.”

“So what do we do, then?”

Sasha shrugged.  “Try to move past it?”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah, I guess we can do that.”

Sasha finally flashed him a smile, and nudged their shoulders together.  “So, is this what you meant before, about the Dean and Cas thing being…complicated?”

Sam snorted.  “Yeah, it’s definitely one part of it.”

“So what… is there a rule or something against angels and humans getting together?”

Sam hid his smile behind a cough.  “Something like that.  And anyway, Dean and Cas have a really long history.”

“Is he your guardian angel?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be.  He was never supposed to get too involved with us, but, well….”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“And Cas stuck around?”

Sam laughed.  “He did more than that.  He gave up everything for us.  More than once.”

“I don’t understand,” Sasha sighed.  “If angels are like that—if they can walk and talk, and love, then _why_ haven’t they done anything to help us?”

Sam shook his head morosely.  “Most of the angels aren’t like Cas.  They’re more… Biblical in nature.  They don’t think like humans do, and they’re big on the smiting.  They don’t think this has anything to do with them.  They don’t care.”

“But not Cas.”

“No, not Cas.  He rebelled against Heaven for humanity, once.  He fell for us.”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, biting her lip.  “For Dean?”

Sam nodded thoughtfully.  “Yeah, for Dean.  It’s always been about Dean, for Cas.  At least, as long as I’ve known him.”

“What he did…back in Chelyan.  It was awesome, in the truest sense of the word…and terrifying.  I watched walkers drop at his feet, without him even needing to touch them.  I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life.  And then a moment later, I watched him almost kill himself trying to save your brother.”

Sam chuckled.  “Yeah, that’s Cas for you.  And he would’ve considered it a good trade, too.  Those two are stupid like that, when it comes to each other.”

Sasha eyed Sam out of the corner of her eye. “Something tells me you can be stupid like that, too, when it comes to family.”

Sam replayed the last ten years of his life in an instant, and laughed.  “Yeah, you got me.”

They were quiet again for a while, simply content to walk.  From time to time, Sasha glanced behind, to where Dean and Cas walked next to Tyreese, who held Judith close to his chest.  Sasha felt her throat constrict at the last glance, so she turned back toward the road.  Her arm brushed Sam’s once more.  “It’s stupid to hope,” Sasha murmured, just loud enough for Sam to hear her.  “But I can’t help myself.”


	22. Back in Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever since I last updated, but life happens. Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for the wait. Enjoy ;)

 

 

 

 

Jackson looked like a tornado had gone through it, and hell, maybe one had.  When they’d first come through the town, it had been mostly abandoned looking, but still orderly, like maybe people had packed up for a vacation but certainly intended on coming back soon.  Now it was little more than a wasteland.  As they made their way slowly into the outskirts of town, they looked at the abandoned buildings with busted windows and burnt out frames with a sense of numbness that none of them had had a year ago.  The only cars they saw were flipped on their sides or left forgotten on the sides of the road with their doors ajar and batteries long gone dead.  Here and there, trees had been ripped from the ground, either from violent storms or a herd, or some poor soul’s last ditch effort to escape.

A couple walkers shuffled along parallel to them, across an irrigation ditch.  They looked like they’d been dead for a very long time: their skin was sloughing off of their faces, and they didn’t even seem aware of the large group that moved near them.

The Winchesters and Rick’s group marched along the dusty roads in twos and threes, surveying the wreckage with learned detachment.  Even so, Dean’s heart hammered in his ribs, with hope and with fear of what he might find waiting for him at the corner of 4 Mile and Antioch, where he’d left Baby so very long ago.

“How much further?”  Sam murmured at his left.  Cas walked silently at his right.

“Less than a mile, I think.  We’ve been on Antioch for a while now.”

“Alright.”

They continued on in silence, Dean’s stomach turning further into knots with each heavy step.

 

 

 

 

The ground was all torn up in the field, like a stampede of something had moved through, utterly irreverent of the earth they tread upon.  Tall yellowed grass, dead on the stalk, spiked up everywhere, and worked to partially obscure the gleam of black and chrome metal from their eyes, but it didn’t matter at all.  Dean would know Baby anywhere.

His feet carried him forward without thought, and he forgot about the others behind him, his attention fixed on the only home he’d known for most of his life.  The Impala’s sides had been smeared with streaks of mud or blood, the paint scratched on the left fender in a long line up to the door, and a couple new dents marred the hood.   Still, it was one of the sweetest sights Dean had ever beheld.  He fell to his knees at the driver’s side door and laid a shaking hand to the chilled metal.  “Hey Baby,” he murmured, “I told you’d I’d be back for you.”

 

 

 

 

Dean was thankful that the others chose not to comment, except for Daryl’s gruff “It’s a good looking car,” and Glenn’s gleeful “sweet ride!”  Dean didn’t think he’d be able to handle criticism well at the moment, or worse, a heartfelt speech from Sam or one of the others. 

Dean walked slowly around the Impala, dragging his fingertips as he went, inspecting every inch of her.  She was here.  She was whole.  She needed a lot of work, but he’d expected that.  Hell, she’d sat out here for _months,_ enduring another apocalypse all on her own, and after already getting them through the shit that was Louisville.  Her tires had gone flat, and she was marked up—battle scars, just like they all bore.  The battery was dead and needed to be replaced.  The fluids had mostly gone dry in their tanks.  And oh yeah, she needed gas pronto.  But the trunk was still locked, and when Dean produced his key from his pocket and opened it, they found that the rest of their supplies were still safely inside.  “Hell yeah,” Dean murmured to himself when he saw the extra cache of weapons and ammo inside that they’d been unable to carry before.  “Sammy, Cas, come get these.  Everyone else, load up with what you can.  We’ve got work to do.”

 

* * *

 

 

The town of Jackson was right up the road, so while Dean, Cas, Eugene, Beth, and Judith settled in to work and rest, the others split up and spread out, marching down the road to find what they could and gather supplies.

 

* * *

 

 

They found a small mechanic’s shop about a half mile up the road, and Sam felt a rare smile grace his lips.  “Hey guys, check this out,” he said, pointing at the little building that looked relatively intact still.  “I bet this has everything on Dean’s list.  I’m gonna check it out.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sasha said with a matching grin. 

“Me, too.”  Father Gabriel added. 

The three of them watched the others continue on down the two-lane road, then turned their attention toward the mechanic’s.  Sam didn’t really pray anymore, mostly because he’d accepted that everyone in charge of Heaven were dicks, but even he could understand when Gabriel bowed his head and murmured “This is a sign from God.”  Sam decided not to comment, though, as he strode forward and, machete in hand, proceeded to pick the lock on the shop’s door.

It became obvious as soon as they’d entered that no one was in the shop, though someone had been at one time.  In the back office, Sam found open food cans lying on the floor, but they were old enough that not even a speck of food was left.  Thankfully there was no sign of walkers or dead bodies.  The shop wasn’t big, but it looked to have dodged looters. 

The three of them slowly made their way through the aisles, looking for what they needed, and anything else that might be of use.  Gabriel admittedly knew nothing of cars, so he was designated as the carrier, though he didn’t seem to mind.  Sasha apparently knew enough about cars that she could pick out a proper car battery and the necessary fluids, while Sam plucked the smaller parts off the shelves. 

“I can’t believe this place has everything we need.”  Sam said, still smiling.  “And it’s got a ton of other great stuff.  Look, they’ve got some baskets next to the door.  I say we load up with whatever we can carry.  What we don’t use, we can take with us.  We’ll need it later, I’m sure.”

And so they piled oil and antifreeze, and gaskets, and sparkplugs into their baskets along with a couple batteries, and they made their way happily back toward the Impala where Dean had already gotten started on fixing her up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beth would never admit that she was tired, but when Dean popped the backdoor of the Impala open and told her she should lie down with Judith for a while, she smiled her thanks and didn’t argue.  With the windows rolled down for fresh air, and the sunlight warming the leather seats, it was the most comfortable place that Beth had slept in months.  The seats smelled like old leather, and it was nice.  Judith settled down easily in her arms, and they were both out within minutes. 

Outside, Eugene reclined against the trunk with a machete in his hands, ostensibly keeping watch for walkers across the large, open field. 

Dean leaned over the Impala’s engine, the hood propped open above him, and he poked and prodded at hoses and gaskets, checked the valves and belts.  “Hey Cas,” he called to the angel who was staring out toward Jackson, “come here for a sec.”  When Cas wandered over, Dean nudged him gently with his shoulder.  “Know anything about cars?”

Cas huffed.  “You already know the answer to that.”

Dean didn’t even bother trying to hide his grin.  He chuckled.  “Well how do you feel about learning?”

Cas nodded solemnly.  “On Baby?”

Dean had to look away.  “Yeah, on Baby.”

“I’d be honored.”

So while Eugene kept watch for the walking dead, and Beth and Judith snored away in the warm safety of the backseat, Dean and Cas bowed their heads over the engine and got their hands greasy while Dean explained how all the parts worked.

By the time Sam and the others returned with the parts, Dean and Cas were ready for them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rick’s group split up once they reached Jackson proper, breaking into threes and fours to scout and gather supplies, with the plan that they’d meet up at the road again in two hours.  They’d all done this before, were practically professionals at the supply raid by now.  It was hunting and gathering all over again, but instead of plants and animals, it was canned goods, water, antibiotics.  Same difference. 

Everyone knew what they were after, and they knew how and where to find it.  They were loaded with every weapon they owned, and by now, they knew how to sweep through a town in silence, collecting and killing as needed. 

The walkers had nothing on them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was Daryl, Glenn, and Maggie who found it.  That rare opportunity that really only came around once or twice in a lifetime.  The get out of jail free card.  The golden ticket.   In Jackson, Ohio, it came in the form of an open lot and a rusted sign that proclaimed _O’RIELLY’S AUTO SALES._

Row upon row of cars—some new, some used, all having suffered some weathering since they’d been abandoned.  Glenn stopped in front of the car lot and shifted his empty backpack.  “You guys thinking what I’m thinking?”

Daryl snorted from behind him.  “Don’t get your hopes up, kid.  Even if they did have gas, we’d never be able to get into ‘em without hotwiring ‘em, and I don’t know how to do these new computerized cars.”

Maggie patted Glenn on the shoulder, but he shrugged and said “No hurt looking, though, right?”  And so, hoisting his machete in his hands, he made his way into the front office, which was torn apart and looked like a hurricane had hit.

As luck would have it, amid the mess on the floor, they found the key box, torn from the wall, and unlocked, with a row full of keys inside.

Maggie and Daryl stood in the door, wide-eyed, disbelieving, as Glenn lifted the key to a new Mustang from the box, laughing, as he said “Now _this_ is a miracle.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was easy enough to get the cars up and running.  A little gas, a couple new batteries, some air in the tires, and they were rolling. 

Later, when they rolled up to the field on Antioch, they did so in two SUVs stocked full of food, ammo, water, medical supplies, and clothes, along with a black sedan, a motorcycle that Daryl straddled stylishly, and a red Mustang with Glenn behind the wheel.  It was a good day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That night, they parked the cars in a circle and huddled amid the hulking metal bodies for whatever sleep they could get.  Jackson had been pretty quiet, but they couldn’t take anything for granted.  Carol scraped some beans out of a can but paused with the spoon close to her mouth.  She regarded Dean coolly over her food.  “So, how long will it take for us to get where we’re going?”

Dean shrugged and his shoulder bumped against Cas’s.  “Depending on how the roads are, it could take us anywhere from a couple days to a couple weeks to get to Lebanon.  But the course we plotted will take us around most of the cities, so hopefully it won’t be too bad.”

Carl perked up next to Beth and said “We’re almost there, then, aren’t we?”

Michonne nudged his boot with her own.  She smiled, but her eyes were serious when she said, “We’ve got a ways to go yet.”

 

 

 

And they did have a ways to go.  It was true.  A mile might take them forever; they had no idea what lay ahead for them.  But that night, as Dean fell asleep wrapped in Cas’s arms, he allowed himself to think of home.  They were close, he could feel it.

Cas’s steady breathing lulled him to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, they pulled out of Jackson in a long caravan, stocked with gas and all of their belongings.  The sun had barely peeked over the horizon by the time they started eating up the miles along Hwy 32, their attention fixed firmly on Kansas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I missed this story. Well, off to write some more! Remember, comments are love! :D


	23. Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than all of the rest, because there was just no good place to stop. Anyway, this was a difficult chapter to write. Please pay attention to warning tags.

 

 

 

They’d been driving for four days, and had made it less than 200 miles.  It was nowhere near the speed that Dean was used to traveling at.  He knew the highways of America like the lines on the back of his hand, and he could breeze through state after state on a good day, but that was before.  Two hundred miles was slow, but it was a hell of a lot better than they’d been doing on foot, so he tried not to get too frustrated by their pace. 

The roads weren’t bad, but they weren’t great either.  Taking the smaller highways had been a good idea, but even still there were times when they had to halt their caravan and move cars out of the road so that they could get through.  A few times, they’d run into walkers and had to wait them out, or kill the ones that lingered.  All in all, it could have been worse.

Dean had wondered at the driving situation back in Jackson, and he’d sort of expected a lot of musical chairs, people switching back and forth between vehicles because they were anxious or bored.  But he’d underestimated Rick’s crew again.  They were sturdy people, smart.  They knew how to get down to business when they needed to.  And a long road trip was nothing compared to what they’d dealt with already.

In the end, the seating arrangements all worked out surprisingly well.  Rosita drove the first SUV with Michonne riding shotgun and Abraham in the back with the supplies.  Carol drove the second SUV with Tyreese riding shotgun.  Sasha and Eugene sat in the back, quietly, because no one in that car was good with small talk.  Daryl rode the motorcycle alone and grinned about the fresh air and the way the bike could maneuver easily through stalled cars on the highway.  Glenn and Maggie and Tara all took turns driving the beautiful red Mustang.  Rick drove the economical sedan, with Carl in the passenger seat, and Beth and Judith in the back.  It was strange, but it almost felt like they were a normal family going on a vacation.  Rick almost expected the kids to start asking if they were there yet.  But they didn’t.  Instead, all of them spoke softly about the things they passed, and about what Lebanon might be like.  Baby led the way with Dean behind the wheel, and Sam riding shotgun, and Cas in the back, the way things were supposed to be.  The only difference was now a priest rode with them.  Father Gabriel looked strange sitting in the back of the Impala next to a fallen angel and riding with two brothers who had been to Hell and back.  Dean couldn’t help it.  He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, and he laughed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were making good enough time, and were feeling hopeful, so when they came upon a smooth, empty stretch of the Ohio River just outside of Madison, Indiana, they decided to stop for a rest.  The sun was out that day, and the weather was warmer than it had been.  Spring was upon them, and Dean realized that it was probably April by now.  Man, they’d been away from home for a long time.  He tried not to dwell too long on what they might find when they got back, what might have happened to Kevin in their absence.  They’d find out soon enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean couldn’t remember whose idea it had been to stop for the day.  Maybe it was just the bright blue sky, and calm waters, and warm air.  Maybe it was the hope shining in Carl and Beth’s eyes, so rare nowadays.  Maybe it was the rumble of all their bellies when Daryl called up from the shore that there were big fish swimming in the river.  Maybe they were all just tired, and hopeful, and needed a day to be normal again.

However it happened, Dean was grateful. 

It reminded him of much simpler days to see Baby pulled up along the curb at the side of the river, with other cars flanking it.  Days back when he and Dad and Sam were as normal as they ever had been.  Days when Dean and Sam had had the time to kick back with a beer and take a breath for a change. 

It was so calm and quiet out here, with the warm, fresh breeze blowing gently through the budding trees.  Everyone in their group was thankful for the break, and had wasted no time breaking up into groups to explore and relax.  They fanned out along the river, most of them happy to get a little privacy for a change.  It could get a little suffocating always being around 18 other people.

Sam and Sasha were some of the first to make themselves scarce, wandering into the tree line together to “gather firewood,” though Dean didn’t miss the two of them twining their fingers together as they disappeared into the shadows. 

Tyreese and Gabriel settled themselves comfortably away from the water and started a fire easily enough.  Every few minutes, they added more twigs to keep it going until Sam and Sasha returned with the promised firewood. 

A few feet away from them, Rick and Michonne entertained Judith by allowing her to crawl back and forth between them.  The sand of the riverbank stuck to her chubby hands and knees, but she laughed whenever she’d reach one of the people she loved and trusted.  Rick and Michonne both looked more carefree and relaxed than Dean had ever seen them.  Maybe this was closer to what everyone was like when the world wasn’t ending.

Down the beach a ways, Glenn, Maggie, Tara, and Rosita seemed to have started up an impromptu game of soccer with a half-flattened ball they’d apparently found in one of the cars.  They laughed and pushed at each other and kicked up sand, and it was awesome. 

Abraham mumbled something about getting some air, and he climbed to the top of a rock outcropping so that he could keep an eye on everyone.  Once he reached the top, he began to systematically clean each of his weapons while he looked out at the calm beauty of the lake and the happy smiles of his new family.

The water rippled around their legs, and lapped against their bellies as Daryl, Carl, and Beth waded into its depths.  From the shore, Dean could hear Daryl explaining to the other two how to catch fish with their bare hands.  Dean snorted, calling it a bluff, only a moment before Daryl jerked and ripped a fish out of the water by its gills.  It thrashed in the air, flinging water, and all three of them laughed, while Tyreese cheered them on, and Carol clapped.  She waited close by for the fish, so that she could get to cleaning it.  They were all gonna eat good today. 

Eugene fidgeted and shoved his hands in his pockets.  He cleared his throat and said “I think I’m just gonna go for a walk.  Lots of interesting geological deposits and things around here.”

“Just be careful,” Rick called.

“Of course.”  Eugene wandered away, face turned down.  Every so often he bent to examine a rock or a shell.

Dean watched him go and he nudged Cas with his shoulder.  “Sounds like a good idea, huh?  Wanna walk with me?”

“Of course, Dean.”

Dean turned and flashed Rick a grin.  “Me and Cas are gonna do the same as Eugene.  We’ll be back in a bit.”

“Keep your ears open.”  Rick said.  It was apparently the only warning that he felt he could give the two of them.

Dean smirked.  “Yeah, we won’t be far.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They scuffed at the rocks with their boots, and walked too close to the lapping waves at the shoreline.   They could still hear the laughs and chatter of their companions behind them.  Their…family?  Were they all family now?

They waited for a long time, simply walking silently and near to each other, before their fingers brushed at their sides, and then tangled together.  Dean wasn’t sure which of them had finally been brave enough to initiate the contact, but it felt good, and he found he could breathe easier when he was touching Cas like this.  It meant they were both alive and whole.

The sand was soft when they finally settled out of sight of the others near a bend in the river.  The Ohio stretched out in front of them, wide and deep, and a hell of a lot cleaner than it had been a year ago.  Apparently not everything went to hell during the end.

“We’re almost home.”  Dean said, finally releasing Cas’s hand so that he could wrap his around his own drawn-up knees.

“Yes.”  Cas murmured. 

“So much has changed since we left.”  Dean breathed in the fresh, warm air.  “It’s been so long.”  He was quiet for a moment, content to soak up the heat from the sun and Cas next to him.  “I’m worried about Kevin.”

“Kevin is smart, and capable.”

“He’s a kid!”  Dean growled.

“He’s a Prophet of the Lord, Dean.”  Cas huffed.  Then, because Cas knew Dean better than anyone, he laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and said “We’ll be home soon.”

It was strange, and later, Dean might wonder what finally made him brave enough to do it, but with the warm, steady weight of Cas’s hand on his shoulder, he finally just realized that there was no reason not to.  So he turned his head, leaned sideways, and caught Cas’s lips with his own.  Cas gasped and froze for just a second before he sighed and pressed back into Dean’s space. 

Cas’s lips were warm and soft, and Dean shivered when Cas’s breath tickled his own lips.  Dean reached his hand up and ran his fingers over Cas’s stubble.  God, they both needed a shave.  Cas mimicked Dean’s movement, but he slid his palm over Dean’s cheek and around the back of his head, to settle on his neck for a moment, before he inched his fingers upward to tangle in Dean’s too-long hair.  Dean didn’t even try to hold back a moan.  Cas swallowed it down easily, and slipped his tongue into Dean’s mouth.  God, he tasted so good.  Before Dean’s brain shut down, he found himself wondering why they’d waited so damn long for this.

Cas pushed forward, and Dean leaned back, and they lost themselves in each other’s mouths and hands, and bodies.  The sun was bright and warm, and the day was the best they’d had in years.  Cas’s warm strength wrapped around Dean, through the soft grip of his fingers, and the slick slide of lips and tongue.  He steadied him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The breeze felt so good on her bare shoulders.  For just a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes and forget everything except for the sun and the water, and the sand beneath her.  She hadn’t had a day like this in years.  So many of the people she loved were gone, but all the others, the ones who were left, laughed happily around her.

Daryl had already pulled two fish from the river and Carl, Beth, and Judith ate contentedly near the fire with some of the others.  Glenn and the young women were still playing, their faces lit with youthful joy that she’d never seen grace their faces before, and she was reminded suddenly of how young they all really were. 

They were all so happy, so hopeful. 

Suddenly, Carol couldn’t take it anymore.  It was too much—their happiness was too heavy.  She rose and dusted the sand from her pants.  Turning to Rick and Michonne, who sat nearby, she jerked her head toward the tree line and said “Gotta pee.  Be back in a bit.”  She barely waited for Rick’s nod of understanding before she disappeared into the shadows, thankful to find shade again.

She followed the path that Sam and Sasha must have taken earlier.  It wound further into the trees and away from the river, skirting between it and the abandoned highway.  The trees grew thicker the further she walked, and she felt the weight on her shoulders begin to slip away.  With each step, her breath came a little easier, until she was walking tall again.

She’d been walking for maybe ten or fifteen minutes when she found a cluster of bushes that looked private enough.  She squatted to relieve herself, but as she stood, pulling her pants up, her eyes caught on something dark and shiny on the fallen leaves not far from her.  She cocked her head to the side and approached slowly.  She reached forward, and with steady fingers, swiped through the dark stain.  Even in the shadows, she knew it was blood.  She raised her head and caught another drop of it splashed along a tree trunk just off the path.

She drew her Bowie from her hip sheath and, quietly, began to follow the path of blood through the trees.

She never used to be able to do this.  Never thought for most of her life that she’d ever have the need, or the guts to do it.  But she’d learned a lot since the world went to Hell.  Tracking from Rick and Daryl and Shane.  Silence from the walkers.  Survival from necessity.  Her boots glided smoothly over the leaf litter as she followed the trail.  She was a hunter now.

Another ten minutes into the forest, the trail of blood ended where the remains of a deer sprawled on the ground, guts torn out, strewn messily on the dead leaves.  Three walkers crouched over the carcass, cramming their mouths with its flesh—faces and fingers bloody.  Carol gulped but backed away slowly, hoping to go unnoticed, hoping that they were too busy with their meal to scent her.

She had just turned to head back toward the beach when she heard rustling just up the path.  Two more walkers stumbled out, drawn by the smell of fresh blood.  A scream froze in her chest, held down by experience and determination.  If she made a sound now, they would see her.  She might be able to make it back and warn the others, but only if she could keep her mouth shut.  She waited silently until they passed, and then she took off at a run, the warning caught in her throat.  Behind her, she heard the scrape of dead feet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eugene squinted down at the water-polished river stones at his feet.  They were all round and smooth, painted beautiful, bright colors where the water licked them.  They only grew dull when they dried.  His pocket already held three.

He was crouching to inspect a shiny quartz when he heard a gunshot and scream, the chilling echo of “ _WALKERS!”_   The word was still ringing on the air when Eugene heard the scrape of boots on rocks and he turned, jerking his head up just in time to see two walkers bearing down on him from the beach.  One of them was a large man, barrel-chested and bloated, with dried vomit staining his white t-shirt.  One of his eyes was missing.  The other walker was a skinny woman who was much faster.  She might have been pretty in life, but now her long brown hair hung limp around her emaciated face, and her nails were too long and dangerous.  She gnashed her teeth at him as she drew closer. 

Eugene heard another shot ring out in the distance, and he stumbled back a step.  The walkers bore down on him, pinning him between them and the river.  He took another step back, and his boot hit water.  God, there was nowhere else for him to go.  “ _Help me!”_ he called, his voice cracking in fear, _“God, please, someone help me!”_ He had a knife, and he drew it, but the walkers were too quick, and they reached for him.  He sliced at the woman’s grasping fingers and she snarled.  The male walker moaned and waddled into the water. 

Eugene continued to back up, the depths of the Ohio River at his back, the water beginning to rise around his legs.  The walkers just followed him in.  The water swirled around his knees and he slashed out again.

The water rose to his waist and Eugene gulped in a panicked breath.  He didn’t know how to swim.  _“Help me!”_ The scream tore from his throat with the last of his breath.  The walkers reached for him.  He tried to dodge around them, and the big one lumbered to the side, his rotted, bloody mouth pulling open.  “ _Oh God,”_ Eugene panted, weaving back.  The water rose.  “ _Save me!”_

The air tore with the sound of more gunshots, and a voice, shouting.  His own name echoed off the river.  Eugene glanced up just in time to see Abraham sprinting down the beach, gun in hand.  This was it.  He was saved.  He smiled, and took a step backward.  The soft silt under his boot melted away and he stumbled, fell, went under.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean and Cas sprawled happily on the soft sand on the bank of the Ohio, their hands and mouths tracing the lines of each other’s bodies, when Carol’s panicked scream shattered their peace.  The both sprang to their feet, straightening their clothes and pulling their weapons in an instant.  A breath later, they were side by side, sprinting back toward the beach.

The sand made it hard to run, and Dean felt his ankle twist on the way, but he managed not to go down.  Cas threw an arm around Dean and heaved him forward, around the bend, just in time to see Sam point his own gun at a walker too close to Carol, and blow its brains out.

The whole beach was in a panic, and Dean took in the scene almost in slow-motion.  Tyreese and Gabriel closing ranks around Carl and Beth, who held Judith.  Michonne and Rick racing toward Carol.  Sasha throwing weapons toward Glenn and Maggie.  Daryl already had his crossbow to his shoulder—he aimed, fired, and dropped one of them just as it stumbled into the open. 

_“Oh, God, help me!”_

Dean turned just in time to see Eugene take another step into the swirling water of the river, with two walkers bearing down on him.  Dean raised his gun and aimed, ready to take the shot, when Cas jerked the gun down and growled “No, you’ll hit him.”

Cas was right.   Dean shook him off and darted forward.  They were still so far away.  Suddenly, from the other end of the beach, Abraham emerged from a tumble of rocks and he began sprinting toward the other man.  “Eugene!”

Dean felt his heart leap—Abraham would get there in time!—but then Eugene tripped, and went under.  The walkers fell into the water after him. 

Abraham dove into the water after them, reaching for his friend.  Dean and Cas tore down the beach, Dean ignoring the sharp pain in his ankle that jarred with each and every step.

Eugene rose from the water, sputtering, blinded by the water.  He opened his mouth to scream, and the walkers were on him.  They tore at him with their fingers and their teeth.  Eugene’s voice came out as a shriek of pain, and he thrashed, trying to shake them off.  A second later, Abraham was there, pulling the walkers away from him, stabbing the giant of a man right through the back of his head.  The walker collapsed, splashing into the water, and carrying Abraham with it.

The water churned darkly, and turned red.  Limbs flailed, and voices screamed—and then the female walker toppled over, a knife in her face. 

Abraham rose from the water, eyes wild, shaken, gripping a torn and bloodied Eugene.  He clutched at him tightly, and the two of them stumbled forward.  Dean and Cas ran out into the water to help them, and Cas managed to get to Eugene just before the other man collapsed.  Abraham leaned heavily on Dean, and for a moment, Dean thought his leg might collapse and he might fall too, but he bit his lip through the pain and hobbled forward until they reached dry sand.  Further up the shore, the screaming and shooting seemed to have finally stopped, and the others pounded down the beach toward them.

Eugene couldn’t stay on his feet, and he fell, dragging Cas down with him to the sand. 

“Outta the way,” Abraham growled, pushing past both Dean and Cas.  He fell to his knees next to Eugene, and slapped a hand over the largest wound on the other man’s body—a ragged tear at the joint between shoulder and neck that continued to gush blood.  He was paling too fast.  “Eugene!  Eugene, you listen to me, now!”  Abraham snarled.  “You stay with me, you hear?  You’re not allowed to die!”

Eugene reached up, his fingers scrabbling in the folds of Abraham’s shirt, until he could get a grip.  “I’m sorry,” he gasped.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up!  Don’t apologize.  Just keep breathing!”  Abraham roared.

Eugene’s eyes watered and he gulped in a breath.  “You are my friend,” he whispered, blood bubbling from his lips.

“Eugene!”  Abraham shouted.  “Eugene!”

The other man’s eyes fluttered shut, and his hand dropped away.  And then he was still.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The camp was too quiet, except for the occasional sounds of sniffling and crying.  Glenn, Rosita, and Maggie had buried Eugene before the sun went down.  Now they all sat around their dwindling fire, too somber to add more wood to the flames.  No one wanted to say it, but everyone knew.  It was too much to break the silence.  It was too heavy.

Abraham had been bitten.

Abraham sat there, his limbs limp, and stared into the flames.  He hadn’t spoken since Eugene died.

The bite was a red wound on his arm, innocuous enough, if everyone didn’t know what it meant. 

Next to Dean, Cas continued to shake his head senselessly, while his eyes watered.  It had taken a lot to get him back up the beach.  Dean almost had to carry him, and he’d fucked his ankle up worse doing so.  He was only able to get Cas back when Sam helped.  He could still hear Cas’s cries ringing in his ears: _I’m so sorry!  I’m so sorry!  I can’t—I can’t!_

Cas had leapt forward, grasping at Eugene, spreading his palms on his chest, willing himself to heal.  But it was already too late.  Eugene was gone.  And Cas didn’t have any Grace left in him.  There was nothing he could do.

Later, when they all noticed that Abraham had been bitten, they directed their heavy gazes toward Cas, but he slumped at Dean’s side like a puppet with his strings cut, and he just kept repeating: _I can’t heal you.  I’m sorry.  So sorry.  I’ve got nothing left._

Rosita sat at Abraham’s side, petting a hand through his short hair when he leaned his head toward her. 

Everyone knew that there was no saving him, but they’d come to a silent agreement, no discussion necessary—they weren’t leaving Abraham behind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was hours later, after the sun had gone down, when Abraham finally stirred—he looked around, almost like he was surprised to still see everyone there.  “You all should go.”

Rosita gripped his arm tightly.  “We’re not going anywhere.”

“You can’t help me.”

“We’re _not_ leaving you.”

“It’s alright,” Abraham rumbled.  His eyes were glazed—the fever had already set in.  “I’ve been a dead man walking for a long time, now.  And Eugene,” his voice cracked on the name, “well… that’s the last time I’ll fail anyone.”

“ _We’re not leaving you!”_ Rosita growled.

No one argued.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Most of them were too upset to sleep, so they sat around, staring at the fire, until exhaustion got the best of them.  The forest was quiet around them, eerily so, except for the pop of the fire and an occasional owl call. 

Around 3:30, Abraham rose shakily to his feet.  Rosita tried to help him, but he shook her off. 

“Gotta take a piss.”  He murmured, eyes downcast.  The rest of the group watched him disappear into the darkness.  Rosita clutched her hands tightly in her lap and stared resolutely into the fire.

A couple minutes later, a gunshot rang out in the darkness.

Rosita collapsed forward, sobbing.

No one said a word, but Daryl and Rick wandered into the forest to get him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the morning, they piled into the cars without much chatter.  They were all still too numb.  They pulled away from the Ohio River, one by one.

In the red Mustang, Maggie leaned her head against the passenger side window, and said “We let our guard down.”

From the backseat, Beth replied “We’re human.”


	24. Faith in Vandalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to any readers familiar with Vandalia. I'm changing some things to suit my story. I hope y'all will forgive me. Enjoy :)

 

 

 

 

They hesitated at the edges of St. Louis, where the city sprawled into the countryside, dotting the horizon with suburbs and small towns that had once been on track to be incorporated, and now lay silent, waiting.

Highway 185 had been a somber one.  Oskaloosa, Farina, St. Peter, Confidence.  They rolled through each tiny town as silently as they could, determined not to make any more waves or take anything for granted. 

Each silent storefront was an opportunity, a temptation, a lie.  They stopped to move cars out of the road, and to refuel.  They didn’t say a whole lot to each other, and the days rolled on. 

They covered ground at the same pace, eating up the miles under their borrowed wheels, Kansas getting closer every day.  They had to start thinking about it, now.  Had to start planning and worrying and praying, if they had the faith for it.  Home hadn’t felt certain since the world went to Hell, but it felt even less certain now.  Lebanon was closer than ever, and still so damn far away.

They had to start thinking about supplies, and calculating their chances.  They had no idea what to expect when they got back to Lebanon—they didn’t even know if Lebanon would still be there, or if the bunker would be.  Hell, they’d made this whole fucking trip on faith, hadn’t they?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Vandalia, Illinois sat at the intersections of I-70, Hwy 51, and Hwy 185.  The town was important once, but not anymore.  It wasn’t a whole lot of anything, anymore, and the only reason they stopped was because the cars needed gas.

Vandalia was the type of town that had a few stop lights but didn’t really need them.  There was a historical downtown, and blocks of businesses and houses that eventually faded into the countryside.  The city was about 70 miles away from St. Louis, but they didn’t plan on getting much closer than that, anyway, instead skirting north on Hwy 267 to Hwy 36, which would take them all the way to Lebanon.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

They pumped gas from the stations that still had any, and siphoned it from abandoned, rolled over cars when they couldn’t find it any other way.  They stored what they could in jugs in the back of the SUVs, even though it wasn’t safe.  Nothing was anymore, anyway.

There was a lot that they could have said to each other there on the roads of Vandalia, but no one could really seem to make themselves talk.  Carl could have said that Judith was hungry, and that they should keep going, but he didn’t.  Just like Carol didn’t say _I told you so,_ and Cas didn’t say _I’m sorry,_ and Rosita didn’t say _It hurt so much more than I thought it would._ Glenn didn’t tell Maggie that he loved her.  Tyreese didn’t tell Sasha that everything was gonna be okay.  Rick didn’t say _I let you all down again,_ and Dean wasn’t making any more promises. 

There was a lot they could have said to each other, but it was just easier not to say anything at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It would’ve been faster to split up and search through the town for supplies, but without talking about it, they decided not to.  They wandered through the streets of Vandalia like a sad, silent parade, walking in a line of twos and threes, only breaking off to inspect the buildings they passed.  Two or three to a building, one block at a time. 

They didn’t find any walkers, but they chose not to tempt fate by mentioning it. 

They were nearing the fringes of the town, spreading out a bit more as the buildings grew further and further apart, interspersed with empty lots and fields, when they found the sporting goods store.  Rick looked over his shoulder as they reached it, and said “Let’s all go.  There’ll be a lot we can use, and everyone’s gonna have to help carry.”  So they filed into the store, one by one, he and Michonne leading the way.  They were only in for a few seconds, making enough noise to draw walkers, when there was a shout, a commotion, and the sound of a rear door being thrown open.  Dean and Daryl, who had been bringing up the rear, leapt back out the door to see what had happened, just as Rick yelled “Someone just ran out the back!”

Sure enough, the blur of a hoodie and jean clad person rounded the corner and dashed down a side street.  Dean didn’t even think about it.  He gave chase, Daryl matching him step for step.  They swung around the corner after the person, and saw them sprinting just up ahead.  The pounding of their footsteps echoed on the pavement, and their ragged breaths drifted back. 

They went for blocks, Dean and Daryl, and the others, further back, shouting “Wait, come back!  We just wanna talk!”  But the person never stopped.  If anything, they only ran faster.  Through roads and even over a fence, until they reached a large brick building, with a sign out front proclaiming _Vandalia High._

The person dodged around some hedges, and squeezed through a gap in a chain link fence, before racing around the corner of the school.  Dean could hear the person panting.  He and Daryl quickly followed.  They could hear the others not too far behind. 

It wasn’t until they were chasing the figure through the halls of the high school that it occurred to Dean that maybe it was a kid they were chasing.  Didn’t matter.  Either way, it was too dangerous to be alone, and they had questions.  “Stop!”  Dean yelled, one more time, as the figure rounded a corner down another wing, shoes squeaking on the tile.

“Hold up, we just wanna talk!”  Daryl shouted, his voice echoing.  They skidded around the corner of the hallway after the person, and froze, almost falling over themselves in their haste not to move.  The sound of a shotgun cocking echoed dully in the hall.


	25. After School Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist with the title, lol... it was just too perfect ;)

 

 

 

The girl couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15, willowy with light brown skin, narrowed dark eyes, and hair pulled back in a knot.  She leveled the gun at Dean and cocked it confidently.  “Don’t even think about moving,” she hissed.

Behind her, a tall blonde boy in a dark hoodie and torn jeans watched them with wide eyes and panted, struggling to get his breath back.  “Storm,” he croaked, “there are more of ‘em.”

Storm’s jaw ticked and she shifted her feet minutely.  “Got it.”  Her eyes tracked slowly between Dean and Daryl, and she took a step back.  Then another.  “Let’s go before they get here.”

A dozen or so voices echoed behind them, calling as they entered the winding hallways of the school.  Footsteps beat against the tiled floors.

“Fuck,” the boy swore.  “We gotta run.  Now.”

“We don’t wanna hurt you,” Dean said, raising his hands in surrender.  “We just wanna talk.”

The boy snorted.  “Heard that shit before.”  Then, “Storm, let’s go!”

“Right,” she huffed, eyes turning wild with panic.  “I’ll cover you.”  She began backing away with the other kid, but she didn’t turn, and she didn’t lower the gun. 

They’d only made it a few steps before the others were rounding the corner to join Dean and Daryl, panting and riled, and ready for a fight.  They ground to a halt with weapons drawn, even Tyreese who had Judith strapped to his chest in a carrier. 

Dean wasn’t sure if they’d been expecting walkers, or men, or a trap, or what, but he could tell just from the tense, panting silence behind him that they hadn’t expected a couple of teenagers.  Dean could feel Sam and Cas and the others breathing at his back, unsure of their next move, stuck in a standoff with a teenage girl and a shotgun.

“Who are you?”  Dean heard Rick ask from behind his left shoulder somewhere.  Dean refused to tear his eyes away from Storm—she still pointed the gun at him.  “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t tell ‘em shit,” the boy muttered in Storm’s ear, his eyes narrowed in defiance.  The hoodie had slipped off his head now and it was apparent just how young he was—he couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17.

“Are you alone?”  That was Sasha.

Storm’s eyes didn’t even falter when she lifted her chin and said “There’s no one else here.”

They were so focused on the kids, trying to figure out just what the hell they’d run into, that they didn’t hear the door to one of the classrooms open behind them, until a woman’s voice growled menacingly, “You take those guns off my kids or I swear I’ll splatter your brains on the wall.”

Dean wanted to turn, but didn’t trust Storm enough to do it.  Behind him, he heard Glenn exclaim “What.  The.  Hell?!”

The same woman said “Mark.  Storm.  Get back, now.  I’ll handle this.”

The boy, Mark, narrowed his eyes.  “We’re not leaving you here alone with them!”

Dean was so confused.  Seriously.  What the hell had they stumbled upon?  It was Sam, who must have been putting on the puppy eyes, who said “Look, we don’t want any trouble.  See—we have kids here, too.  We just wanna talk.  I swear.”

The woman’s voice floated back, sarcastic and hard.  “Sorry.  Promises don’t mean a lot nowadays.  You came into our house—and now I want you all to leave.”

“How many of you are there?”  Maggie asked.

“Enough.”  The woman growled.

“Look, I don’t mean to be a bitch,” Sasha snarled, “but we’ve got a hell of a lot more weapons than you do.” 

“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Rick said, “but we have questions.  And we want answers.”  He motioned around them.  “We have food.  We can share and talk nicely….”  He didn’t bother mentioning the alternative.  Dean had learned that Rick was a real badass in his own right, but he was also aware that his own children were in that hallway, and might get caught in some crossfire. 

“Look,” Dean said, still keeping his eyes on Storm, “it’s obvious that no one here wants to shoot, okay?  So can’t we all just agree to put our guns down and have that chat?”

“We can’t trust you.”  The woman said from behind him.

“No, you can’t.  Can’t trust anyone, nowadays, am I right?  But doesn’t change the fact that there are more of us.  If we wanted something besides info from you, do you really think the three of you could stop us?”

“There are more of us.”  Storm snarled.

Dean shook his head, just a fraction.  “Not here.”

Storm bit her lip, and Dean realized she was doing her best not to cry.  Behind her, Mark looked white as a sheet by now, and his face was still beaded with sweat.

“How many of you are here?”  Rick asked. 

No one responded.

“How long have you all been here?”

“How do you protect against the walkers?”

Storm’s mouth twisted.  “The what?”

Mark shifted uneasily on his feet behind her.  “Think he means the zombies.”

Somewhere down the hall, they heard something collapse and a child scream.  Storm and Mark’s eyes widened in fear, and Storm’s hands twitched, the gun jerking dangerously.

“Are there more of you?!”  The woman snarled.

Daryl’s voice was measured, but barely, when he said “Whatever that was, it ain’t us.  If you promise not to shoot us, we’ll help you.”

Dean could practically feel the weight of the woman’s panic pressing in close in the hallway.  Down the hall, the child continued to scream.  The woman’s voice was tense when she said “Storm, lower the gun.  Let’s go.  Fast.”

She pushed her way through the group until she stood with the teenagers, and Dean could see for the first time that she was a young woman, probably early 20s, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.  Her face was ashen with worry when she joined the others and led them forward down the hall.

She led them to the end, and then through a warren of interconnected classrooms that looked like they’d been barricaded several times—they were following the cries.

Finally, she cast a dark look back at the rest of them, warning and wary, before she pushed the door open and strode inside, the teens following her, and said “What happened?!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Inside was a classroom—or what had once been a classroom, and now looked like a makeshift barracks, with cots and piles of blankets laying around, and backpacks still littering the floors.  Across the room, desks had been piled high to form a barricade, and near it sat a woman and four young children.  She was holding one of them, a curly-haired little boy who curled in her lap, crying.  The woman jerked her head up and she paused in her attempts at shushing the child.  Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of so many strangers spilling into the room.  She gulped, eyes darting frantically, before she said “Some of the desks collapsed, while we were… uh…hiding.”  She squeezed the child to her chest.  “Joey got caught under some of them.”

The woman who had led them rushed into the room and knelt next to them, her hands fluttering as she asked “Is he okay?  Joey, are you okay?”

The child sniffled some more and held onto his arm, which looked like it might already be starting to swell.  He shook his head.  “H-hurts,” he sobbed.

“Shit,” the woman hissed, before standing and turning to one of the other young children.  “Ernesto,” she said, motioning toward a boy with dark hair and glasses that looked to have been about 12, “take Annie with you to medical and grab the splint stuff and some pain killers.  Take the short way through.”  The boy nodded and headed out another side door with a scrawny brunette girl, maybe 7 or 8, following in his wake.  As soon as they were gone, she turned to Dean’s group and said “Do any of you have any medical experience?  I think Joey might have broken his arm.”

It didn’t surprise Dean when both Maggie and Carol came forward, though he was never clear on the extent of their experience.  The two women watched warily as Maggie and Carol inspected the still crying child while the remaining girl, a pudgy pre-teen with wild red hair and a frown sat next to him.  Behind the group, the two teenagers continued to glare warily, shotgun held loosely in Storm’s hands.  Dean glanced at her for a moment, and could tell that though she’d seemingly lowered her guard, she was probably still ready to blow them away at a moment’s notice.

Maggie glanced up at the others after a moment and said “Yeah, it’s broken.  Not much we can do besides splint it and put it in a sling.  Didn’t break clean through, and he’s young enough that if he’s careful, it should heal alright.”

The woman who seemed to be in charge nodded and said “Thanks.”  Then she cast her gaze at the rest of them one more time before seeming to deflate.  “Well I guess if you all meant to hurt us, you wouldn’t have helped just now.  So.  You wanted to talk?”

Rick stepped forward once again and said “Why don’t you tell us about yourselves?”

The woman snorted and shook her head, as if in defeat.  “What do you wanna know?”

“Who are you guys?  How did you come to be here in the school?  How long have you been here?  We came through town and didn’t see any walkers—how have you been protecting yourselves?”

The woman rolled her shoulders and shared a look with the other woman.  “I’m Janine, and this is Amy… and it’s a long story.  You said you had food?”

Ernesto and Annie returned a few minutes later with the medical supplies, and Maggie got to work splinting Joey’s arm.  After it was finished, Glenn and Tara dug in their packs for food and passed some around for everyone.  The room was really too small to hold them all, but they somehow managed to fit.  Once everyone was settled and eating, Janine began to talk.

 

* * *

 

 

_"We’ve been here since The End.  At least, most of us have.  Amy and I were both teachers.  She taught second grade at the elementary school across the street.  And I taught chemistry and physics, right here._

_"We knew things were getting bad for a long time.  Saw it on the news every day, but what were we supposed to do?  I didn’t believe half of it, and the other half was too much.  Near the end, most of the kids just stopped coming to school.  Some of the teachers did to.  They packed up their things and their families, and they left.  But some people didn’t really have anywhere else to go, or else they were like me, and they didn’t really believe what they were hearing._

_"Finally, the administration decided to close the school.  They dismissed all of us and sent us home—those of us who were left.  By the last day of school, I had three students left. Mark was one of my students._

_"On the last day, me and the students all said goodbye to each other, and told each other to be safe, and we left._

_"I walked home to my empty apartment and turned on the news.  I sat there for hours, watching as…_ things _…things out of a nightmare, attacked people.  I saw chaos, and frightened newscasters warning people to stay in their homes, and to protect themselves at all costs.  Some said it was a disease, some said it was zombies, some said it was the end of the world.  Do you know they broadcasted the bombings on the news?  I watched them do it.  I watched them drop bombs on cities not far from here._

_"It made me so sick, I couldn’t bear to stay there, alone in my apartment, anymore.  I had family, all the way on the other side of the country.  But the airports were shut down, and they were bombing the roads.  I didn’t have a car, and I knew I’d never make it in time.  So I left.  On a hunch, I decided to go back to the school.  It seemed like a safer place to be, in all honesty._

_"Outside, it was chaos.  People were screaming, and shooting, and I saw… people I once knew… biting and tearing at our neighbors.  When I saw what was happening here, in my town, I realized that I might not be able to make it back to my family, but there might be people here who DID need me.  So I went back.  And I’m glad I did."_

Janine was silent for a moment, contemplative.  Then she raised her head and locked eyes with Mark from across the room for a moment, before she sighed and ran a hand over her face.  Mark wandered over to a window and looked out at the streets below.

_"I found Mark sitting there, on the front steps of the school.  His parents left him."_

Janine narrowed her eyes and clenched her fists.

_"No note, no explanation.  Nothing.  They took their things and they left.  He couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, so he came back here._

_"They left him.  So I unlocked the school, and we both went back to my classroom, and I turned on the news.  Neither of us had anywhere else to go, and we were just trying to figure out what the hell was happening out there.  I was just beginning to believe it might be the end of the world._

_"It wasn’t too much later that night when we heard the screaming.  We ran outside and found one of those zombies attacking Amy, who was trying to protect Annie and Joey."_

Janine snorted, shaking her head.

_"Their parents never came to pick them up, so Amy volunteered to stay with them until someone came.  No one did.  But when we heard the screaming, Mark and I ran out to help them.  Amy was fending the zombie off, but she was losing; it kept clawing at her, and trying to bite her.  Me and Mark yelled for her to run to us, but the kids were too scared.  So we ran out, and grabbed the kids, and we all made it back here, in the school.  I locked the door and we all went back upstairs, where it felt safer._

_"It was the five of us for a while, hiding out in my classroom, sneaking into the cafeteria for food when we needed to.  We were afraid to leave the building, but eventually the news stopped broadcasting, then the phone lines went down, then the power went out.  And we knew we were screwed.  We had to do something._

_"By then, the town had quieted down a lot.  Most people had either left, or were dead, or were hiding still._

_"Mark and I went out to get supplies—food, and weapons, and medicine, and clothes—anything we thought we might need.  Amy stayed with the little ones, and they started to build the barricades, and to reinforce the doors.  The doors on this place are made of steel, and the building is brick—it was probably the safest place in this town, and I still thank God that I thought to come here._

_"On one of our supply runs, Mark found Ernesto and Rachel hiding in a car.  Both their families had been trying to make it out of town when a swarm of those zombies attacked and pulled people out of their cars, and killed them.  These kiddos ran, and hid, but they were too afraid to come out, until Mark found them and promised to take them some place safe._

_"We found out later that Annie’s parents had been attacked at home, and that Joey’s parents had tried to make it to the school to get him, but… well, we found the car._

_"We tried to find everyone’s families, but after a week or so, we started to understand that that wasn’t gonna happen.  So we settled in here, and we tried to make this place as safe as we could."_

Janine paused for a moment, and wetted her lips before continuing on, voice strained.

_"We found Storm wandering the streets by herself a couple weeks after that—in blood spattered clothes, and carrying a machete.  We asked her to come with us, and she did, but… she doesn’t like to talk about what happened._

_"So, we did our best.  We’re all each other’s got now.  We made this place as safe as we could, and we find supplies when we need them.  We learned a lot about the zombies—we learned how to avoid them, and how to kill them.  Me, Mark, and Storm cleared this town bit by bit… and we’re pretty good about killing the ones that still occasionally wander in._

_"We’re family, and this is our safe place, and it works.  Well,_ worked _, that is, before you guys showed up."_

 

Rick cleared his throat in the sudden tense silence of the room, and said “We apologize.  We didn’t realize that you all were here, and we’ll, uh…” He flicked his gaze around the group for a minute, “We’ll give the supplies back.”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “We saw Mark run out of the sporting goods store, and we thought he might be alone—we just wanted to talk, see if he was alright.”  Rick cocked his head and eyed the teenage boy.  “Why _was_ he alone, by the way?  It’s still pretty dangerous out there.”

“Yeah, we know,” Janine said, “But we don’t exactly have a whole lot of people to spare, and Mark runs fastest.”

“We all help out.”  Ernesto said, from where he sat next to Joey now.

Rick nodded.  “I see that.”

“So, you heard our story,” Janine prompted, “now what about yours?  Why are you all here?”

Dean cleared his throat.  “We’re on our way home, just passing through.  Decided to pick up supplies.  We’ll be leaving soon.”

“How do you all know each other?”  Amy asked, in between making soothing sounds to ease Joey.

Dean shrugged.  “Some of us were family, others we met along the way.  Either way, we’re all family now.”

“Is your home safe?”  asked Rachel, the red-headed girl.

“Yeah, it’s safe.”  Dean answered.

“But how do you know?”  The girl asked.

“I just know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam share a look with Cas before licking his lips and saying “You all, uh… you could come with us.  If you wanted.  It’d be safer.”

Near the window, Mark snorted.

A strange smile twitched Janine’s lips for only a second before it disappeared.  “Thanks,” she said, “but it sounds pretty uncertain, and we don’t know you.”  She shrugged, and motioned around.  “At least we know this, right here.  This town is ours, and we’ve made it work.”

“Are you sure?”  Rick asked.

“Yeah,” Janine said, sharing a look with Amy.

“Well, then, I guess we’ll… uh, get outta here, and leave you alone.  Sorry again for what happened.  We didn’t mean any harm, but you can never be too careful.”

“How many guns do you have?” Carol asked, coming forward.

Janine frowned.  “Just the two, but we’ve got other weapons that work just as well.”

Carol turned and seemed to communicate silently with Rick, and Glenn, and Daryl for a moment, before the men started digging through their bags.  They produced three handguns and a few boxes of ammo.

“Take these.”

Janine looked at the weapons warily.  “Won’t you need them?”

“We’ve got more, and anyway, we’ve got cars, and a long highway in front of us.  Plenty of other places to find supplies.  You guys sound like you need them more.”

Janine took the guns carefully, and set them aside.  “Well then… thank you.  Really.”

They all stood there, trying to figure out how to say their goodbyes, when Rosita came forward, not looking at the others, and stood in front of Janine.  “Do you, uh… do you have room for one more?  I’d like to stay.”

“WHAT?!”  It seemed like everyone had shouted the question at once, completely uncomprehending of what had just happened.

Janine glanced at the others before fixing her eyes on Rosita.  “Why would you do that?  You don’t even know us.”

Rosita raised her chin and said in a strained, but clear voice: “My family, the people I loved… I lost them a few days ago.  I don’t… I don’t really feel like I fit in anywhere anymore.”  She hunched her shoulders at the weight of the stares at her back.  “And you guys sound like you could use the help.  I used to be military.”

“We don’t want to cause trouble,” Amy said, just as Janine added “We have a system, here.”

“I’d be willing to learn,” Rosita assured the women, “And it won’t be any trouble.”  She glanced at the others over her shoulder, and her lip wobbled for just a moment.  “I speak for myself.”

“Rosita,” Tara said, reaching out for the other woman, “don’t do this.  Don’t leave.  We want you with us.  We ARE your family.”

Rosita’s eyes teared up, but she shook her head.  “I know, and I love you all, but it hurts so bad.  So bad.  I can’t stop thinking about… about _them_.  I need this.”  She motioned to the room.  “You see these kids?  I can do good, here.  You guys don’t need me.  They might.”

Janine rolled her shoulders.  “If that’s your choice, then I’m sure we could find room for you, and, uh… we appreciate the offer.”

Glenn cleared his throat.  “Are you sure?”

Rosita nodded.  “I’m sure.”

“Alright.”  Rick nodded.  “If that’s what you think is right.  But… we’ll miss you.  All of us will.”

Rosita smiled sadly.  “I’ll miss you all, too.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair and said “Anyone got a pen and some paper?”

Mark shifted.  “Yeah, why?”

“Write this down.”  Dean gave them the address for the bunker, in Lebanon.  “If you ever need our help, or if you change your minds… this is where we’ll be.  You’ll all be welcome.”

Janine smiled.  “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

After everyone had hugged Rosita and said their teary goodbyes, Dean’s group did as they promised, and left the high school.  On their way back through the town of Vandalia, Dean overheard Maggie say “I don’t like leaving Rosita.  In fact, I don’t like leaving any of them behind.”

Michonne’s voice was somber, but sure when she said “It isn’t our choice.”

 

* * *

 

Still, at the edge of Vandalia, they left their sedan behind, with some more ammo, and a note taped to the inside that read: “ _Just in case.”_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this chapter! I've been working on it for a while :)


	26. Haven

 

 

Flat land.  Fields and fields of corn and wheat, left to grow on their own.  Abandoned.  Forgotten.  Wild now.  The first blush of spring flowers dotted the roadsides.  A storm was blowing in from the east, thunderheads building in the distance.  Walkers dotted the horizon at random intervals, nothing more than shuffling shadows.

On Hwy 281, just north of the junction from Hwy 36, a weathered sign hung, creaking in the strengthening wind.  It read: _Welcome to Lebanon, Kansas—the geographical center of the USA._

From where they’d parked on the side of the road, Glenn shielded his eyes against the fast-disappearing sun, and said “So, uh… this is it?”

Carl scuffed his boot against the ground.  “There’s nothing here.”

“This is a very small town,” Michonne noted generously, glancing back over her shoulder at the clouds.

“It is,” Dean agreed, “But this is where we need to be.”

“So, where is it?  Your home?”  Rick asked.

Sam pointed further up the road.  “That way.  You see that stand of trees on the horizon?  Our home is back there.”

“Alright, then,” Daryl said, “let’s head on over then.”

“Right.”  Dean cleared his throat and climbed back into Baby.  “Home sweet home, here we come.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

From the outside, it looked like an old factory, abandoned, and perched on the side of a hill.  Brick, and cement, and white-gray stones, stained from decades of rust that ran down the sides like blood.  Tall, skinny windows reflected sunlight dully—years of grime clouded the glass. 

Beneath the jut of the hill, where the foundation stones disappeared into the earth, a door, framed in a semi-circle of brick, led underground.  It was innocuous—if a person didn’t know it was there, they might never bother with the place.

“Here we are,” Dean said, parking the Impala out front.  Sam, Cas, and Gabriel were tense and silent.  Dean’s stomach turned over with nerves.  They’d traveled more than a thousand miles through a Hellish landscape, endured torment and loss.  And finally, here they were.  Standing at the front door of the bunker. 

In a moment, they would know whether it had all been worth it. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean pushed the door open and got out to join the others who stood in the leaf mulch at the side of the road, looking toward the factory façade with unimpressed faces.

“This… this is it?”  Carol asked, voice inflectionless.

“You told us it was safe,” Sasha said, turning confused, angry eyes on Sam.  “You said it was a fortification.  No place safer on earth.”

“It is,” Sam said, “I swear!”  He rolled his shoulders and took a step forward.  “You’ll see.”

Dean and Cas shared a look over the top of the Impala and joined him, matching him step for step.  They were about 100 feet from the door to the bunker when suddenly the air was rent with the sound of a wailing tornado siren that seemed to echo from all around them.

Behind the Winchesters, Rick grabbed Carl and Judith and pulled them to the ground.


	27. The Madness of Kevin Tran

 

 

“Son of a bitch!”  Dean snarled, lunging for the Bunker door.

 Behind him, the others had covered their ears and were seeking shelter.  “What is it?!”  Glenn yelled.

“Tornado siren!”  Maggie screamed, eyes darting frantically to find a place to hide from the storm.

“It’s gonna draw the walkers, Dean!”  Sam gasped, running to his side.

Dean slammed his palms against the metal door.  “Kevin!”  He yelled, banging.  “Kevin!  It’s us!  It’s us!”

“Let us in!”  Sam yelled, joining Dean at the door.  “Kevin!”

“What if he’s…?”  Cas asked quietly from behind Dean’s shoulder.

“KEVIN!”

Time seemed to stretch then, between long wails of the deafening siren.  The tornado never came, but the walkers did, ambling over the low grassy hills, drawn to the noise and the scent of the living.

“Dean!  The key—do you have the key?!”  Sam hollered.

“Shit!”  Dean ran back to the Impala and dug in his duffle for the antique key.

“Hurry!”  Maggie screamed.

Dean snatched the key out of his bag and sprinted toward the door.  “I have it!  Come on, run!”  The others scrambled to follow him, still swamped in the confusion of the moment—was a tornado about to suck them all up?  Would the walkers get to them first?  Dean reached the door, brushed Sam and Cas aside, and slid the key home.  The heavy door opened with a creak and Dean snarled “ _Everybody in!_ ”

They poured through the door onto the dark landing, and toward the stairs that led down, down into the depths of the bunker.  “Hurry, Dean!”  Sam hissed next to him, voice tense with restrained panic.  “Shut it!”

In the end, Cas and Sam had to help him push, but he managed to get the door slammed shut just as the moaning of the walkers and their dead, grasping hands reached them.  The door shut with a click and a sense of dreaded finality that shivered through Dean’s bones.  Around them, the wailing continued, and red lights flashed across the inside of the bunker, surreally illuminating everyone’s faces.

“How do we turn it off?”  Rick growled from behind Dean, where he clutched his daughter to his chest.

“It’ll bring them all down on us!”  Carol yelled.

“Sam—get to the control room!”  Dean shouted, pushing his brother forward.  The rest of them followed, spilling down the stairs after him, to the large open room at the bottom. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam was faster than the others, long-legged, and used to running.  His heart thumped, and breath burned his throat as he tore through the hallways to the control room.  When he reached it, he found another red light whirring above the door, and the blast of the siren ringing tinnily from the antique speaker embedded in the wall.  His hand was sweaty when he grasped the handle and shoved the door open.  He dashed in, then slid to a halt, shocked and overwhelmed, as a dark figure, hunched over the controls, suddenly rose, and whirled, gun in hand.  The both of them froze for a moment, and blinked at each other in the strange, gloomy light.

Then Kevin took a tentative step forward, and, voice shaking, asked “…Sam?”

“Kevin,” Sam gasped.  “Oh my god, you’re alive!”  Sam took a hesitant step, but stopped, because Kevin still held the gun.

“I thought…” Kevin gulped, “I thought you were dead.  I thought you were all dead.”  His face crumpled, then, and his hand began to shake.  “Oh god, are you dead?  Sam, are you dead?”

“What?”  Sam gasped.  “No, Kev, look… I’m right here, I’m not dead.”

“I’m dreaming then.”  Kevin muttered, seemingly to himself.  “It’s happened before.”

“What’s happened?  Kevin, stay with me.”

“You guys always come back,” Kevin whispered.  “But then I wake up, and I’m alone.”  He let out a low whine.  “And outside, they’re all dead.”  He quivered, and he dropped his hand to his side, the gun along with it.  “Everyone’s dead, and I’m the only one left alive.” 

Sam couldn’t stand to wait and watch as poor Kevin Tran, a boy he considered family, crumpled completely and began to shake with sobs.  Sam rushed forward and snatched the younger man up into his arms.  “Shhh, Kevin.  I’m here.  We’re back.  We’re back.  You’re not alone.  You’re not dreaming.”

Kevin clung to Sam’s back, his face buried in Sam’s neck.  “I…” he gulped back a sob, “I thought I was the only one left.”

Sam ran his hand over Kevin’s back, and held him tight.  “We’re home, Kevin.  We’re home.”  He allowed Kevin to settle for another moment, before he said, “Kevin, we have to turn the alarms off.  It’s drawing all of the walkers.  They’re coming.”

“I know,” Kevin gasped, ripping himself out of Sam’s arms, and turning to hover over the computers again.  “I thought….”  But Sam never learned what Kevin thought, because the other man stopped talking halfway through his work.  But a second later, the siren and flashing lights stopped, and the regular yellow lights of the bunker illuminated the space again.

Sam finally allowed himself to take a breath as he regarded the tear-stained face of Kevin Tran—he looked older, and harder than before.  His clothes were rumpled, hair wild and too long, face lined from worry and grief.  He still shook—not violently, but enough that Sam noticed.  “Are,” Kevin licked his lips and clenched his fist at his side.  “Are Dean and Cas…?”

Sam smiled.  “Yeah, Kevin, they’re back.  They’re okay.  We all made it.  But, uh, I need to explain some things to you before we leave this room.”

“What?”

“We brought others.”

“What?!”  Kevin exclaimed, darting forward, only to be stopped by Sam’s firm hand.  “Who?  Why?!”

“It’s been a long year,” Sam said wearily.  “They became family along the way.  We promised them a place to stay.”

Kevin laughed.  He tipped his head back, and he laughed.  “So you brought them to the haven of the last man on earth.”

Sam frowned.  “Yeah.”

Kevin’s eyes were still a little wild when he straightened, and rubbing his hands nervously on his pants, said, “Well, let me meet them.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kevin marched confidently back toward the entrance of the bunker, Sam trailing in his wake.  Kevin moved like he knew every twist and turn like the back of his own hand, like he’d become one with the bunker.  Sam watched him warily as he followed, unsure of Kevin’s reaction when he came face to face with the others.  In the end, though, Sam needn’t have worried.

When he saw the others, the first thing he did was dash forward and throw himself into Dean’s arms, sobbing all over again.  He clutched at his brother and babbled, and then he yanked Cas into the hug as well.  “You’re alive!  You’re here!  Oh god, I thought you were dead!”

Sam watched as Dean clasped the younger man back, and began to tear up himself.  “We tried to call you, Kev,” Dean promised, voice shaking with tears.  “To warn you.  Then…”  Dean paused to suck in a breath, “it took so long to get back.”  Cas murmured something to Kevin that Sam couldn’t hear, and Kevin nodded.  “Damn, man, it is so good to see you.  We were so worried.”

Sam remembered every single time Dean had mentioned Kevin over the span of the last year, since the shit went down outside Louisville.  He thought of how guilty Dean had been, wracked with his own worry and grief for the young man who they considered family.

Finally, after a long moment, Kevin pulled back to get his first look at the others.  “Wow,” he murmured, “you really weren’t kidding, Sam.”  He looked over all of the new faces silently for a moment, before he raised a hand and said, “Hi, I’m Kevin.  Tran.”  He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and waved vaguely at the large room.  “Welcome to the Men of Letters Bunker, the ‘safest place on Earth, warded against any evil ever created,’” Kevin said with a smirk, quoting from the Men of Letters themselves.  Then he chuckled.  “Updated, of course, by Yours Truly.”

Dean and Sam just stared at him for a moment, taking in his words and the abrupt shift in his demeanor.  Rick opened his mouth, probably to thank Kevin, or to introduce the others, but Daryl beat him, blurting “And what are you—an angel or something, too?”

Kevin tipped his head back and laughed again, then pointed at Cas.  “I see they learned all about you!”  He continued to giggle to himself, but finally gained enough control to say “No—I’m just a guy.  Nothing special.”

Cas’s voice was dry, when he offered: “He’s a Prophet of the Lord.”

Daryl sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair.  “Of course he is.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean made the introductions as they all stood around in the large room at the bottom of the stairs.  The names and handshakes were quick and efficient, and they didn’t really mean a damn thing.  Saying that Kevin was family didn’t sum up even half of it.  Telling Kevin that the others had been with them through some shit sounded too simple.  How could he explain that he’d grown to love these people, and trust them?  It wasn’t enough.  Only time would reveal the reality of who these people were, and what they all meant to each other now.

After the niceties, Dean cleared his throat and said “There’s a lot of us now.  We’re gonna need a lot more supplies.  We brought some with us,” Dean paused and jerked his head toward the door, “but it’s all still out there.  And last we saw, the walkers were swarming the place.”  He met Kevin’s eyes.  “How long do you think they’ll linger?”

Kevin shrugged.  “Probably a couple days, give or take.”  A collective flinch went through the group, and Kevin understood—food, water, medicine, clothes, guns—all outside, all out of reach.  “But don’t worry, guys.  I’ve got you covered.”

“What do you mean?”  Cas asked, finally raising his voice to be heard.

Kevin grinned sheepishly.  “It’s been a long year.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kevin led them through the bunker like a tour guide, detailing the stock of the place and the tweaks he’d made.  “We still have electricity and running water,” Kevin began as the others followed him.  “The kitchen is fully stocked, and I’ve got rooms filled with all the food and water I could find.  I still go on runs when I can.”  He led them down to the sickbay and said “I’ve got the place full of all the medicine and equipment I could raid from the clinic in town.  Also: clothes.  Lots of them.  Sorry, most are plaid and jeans and boots.”  He grinned wryly.  “I always hoped you guys would come home.”

“You’ve been going on supply runs?”  Dean finally demanded.  “By yourself?!”

Kevin laughed.  “Yep.  But don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”  He waved his hand toward the hallway that led to the armory and gun range.  “I’ve got this place stocked with weapons and ammo, too.”

“But…by yourself?  I know you didn’t have much of a choice, but… Jesus, man.  You could have been killed.”

“Yep,” Kevin acknowledged with a nod, “but I also took precautions.”

“What kind of precautions?”  Sam asked.

Kevin grinned.  “I’ve been busy.  Let me show you.”

Kevin led them back to the big open room the held the tabletop map.  “You know that the Men of Letters wired this baby up to track monsters and high EMF spikes, and even demonic activity.”

“Yeah…?”  Dean prompted.

“Well I figured that since those…Croats out there were at least partly demonic in nature, the system could work with them, too.”  He chuckled.  “Originally it didn’t—didn’t even notice them.  But then after some tweaking, I added a sample of their blood into the system, and now they show up here.”  He pointed to the map.  In the corner, there was an enhanced image of Lebanon, and then within that, the bunker.  Red dots gathered around the building.  “I can track them all.”

“Holy shit.”  Dean breathed.

“If the system senses more than three Croats within a hundred yards, it automatically puts the bunker into lockdown mode.”  Kevin blushed.  “I’m still working on the kinks in the system, though.  Haven’t quite figured out how to lock the place down without that damn siren going off every time and drawing more of them in.”

The others stood in awe, trying to digest what this information really meant.

Kevin grinned manically.  “But that’s not all.”  He led them into the library, where books and papers were strewn across every available surface.  “They’re not demons,” Kevin muttered, just clear enough so that everyone could hear him, “but it’s a demonic infection.”  Kevin’s smile stretched across his whole face.  “I found wards that work against them.”  He shifted from foot to foot nervously.  “I had to tweak some things, and experiment, but I had a lot of time on my hands.”  He raised his shirt to reveal his own anti-possession tattoo, but it had been altered.  New sigils had been clumsily inked around it.  “It repels them.”

Dean and the others simply gaped at him for a moment.  Dean finally grinned and breathed “Kevin… you’re awesome.”

Kevin smirked.  “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...BECAUSE HE'S KEVIN FREAKING SOLO!


	28. Learning How To Live Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever. Life has been a challenge, lately. But I don't forget, and I don't abandon. We're almost through.

 

 

The Winchesters had never fully appreciated the warren of rooms and hallways and levels that made up the orderly madness of the Men of Letters’ bunker.  They did now, though.  There were seventeen people to house and care for, and the boys were finally, fully thankful that they had the room.  They would have found a way, regardless, but there was something to be said for having a space of one’s own. 

Of course, not everyone wanted or needed their own space.  It became immediately obvious that there were those among the group who somehow needed to be together, and some who needed to be alone, and some who found a pleasure and satisfaction in maintaining a barracks lifestyle.  So when, after the introductions were over, the room assignments were issued, there was little squabbling or discussion.  Everyone already knew where they wanted or needed to be.

The rooms ranged down the central hallway in the bunker—an arrangement created by the early Men of Letters fraternity, with the optimistic enthusiasm of a group of men who thought they were invincible.  They’d meant for the bunker to hold a large number of them at any given time.  And while that reality never came to fruition, their thoughtful planning was now appreciated in a new light.  Long after the last of the brotherhood were dead, the bunker was finally, truly, a haven.  The last stop for the weary warriors who vowed to hold off the apocalypse.  It was fitting.  Dean thought the good ol’ boys might appreciate the ironic poetry of the thing.  At least, he figured Henry would’ve.

There was enough space, and more, so the room assignments were arranged as follows:

Rick, Carl, and Judith moved into the first room on the left.  It had been empty for a long time, and needed to have the dust wiped away, but it was large enough for the three of them to live there together comfortably, like their own little family.  Dean had almost suggested that Carl could have his own room, but in the end he realized that both he and Rick needed to be together, at least for a little while.  After so long of not knowing, of not being sure that they’d make it through the day, they needed to rest in each other’s presence and just be assured that they were all really still alive.

Glenn and Maggie took the room next door, and thanked the Winchesters with weary smiles.  For the first time, they would finally be able to live like a married couple. 

Daryl, Tyreese, and Gabriel moved into a barracks-style room together.  Single men, but also weary warriors, who’d gone through their own heart-wrenching, body-breaking transformations through the crucible of The End.  It was easiest this way, they insisted. 

The women also set up a makeshift barracks across the hall, where they could offer each other support and a reminder that they’d made it.  They were still alive, and safe, but… but, well, they would never be able to go back to the way they had been, before.  They were changed, irrevocably, and there was no point in the pretense that it was possible.  So they determined to continue living as they had been—like warriors, ready to face whatever the world threw at them.  In the women’s barracks were Michonne, Sasha, Tara, Beth, and Carol.

Sam reclaimed his own room, and though he was alone, he offered the place to Sasha as well.  He wasn’t sure what sort of relationship they had, or where it was headed, but he wanted to pursue it as long as she was amiable.  She’d only smiled softly and said that she’d stop by sometime.  Sam took the answer with his own soft smile, and said that he was happy, and the door was always open.

Kevin didn’t offer his space to anyone else, and no one made a comment about moving in with him.  The brothers had seen his madness the moment they’d encountered him, and they understood, because of their own fucked up life trials that he needed to be alone for a while.  Even then, though, Kevin felt the need to leave his room compulsively a few times an hour that first night, just to make sure that the others were really there, that they were alive, that he was no longer alone.  After assuring himself of that truth, he retreated back into his own space to metaphorically lick his wounds and contemplate their possible futures.

Near the end of the hall sat Dean’s old room, still arranged exactly the way he’d left it, undisturbed by Kevin in the hopes that the brothers would come back.  His memories still lay scattered across table tops, and his favorite weapons still adorned the walls.  One side of the room had also been conspicuously bare—unfinished, incomplete. 

But that incompleteness was resolved now, finally mended and made whole.  Cas draped his jacket over one of the chairs and sat on the empty side of the bed, and stared up at Dean, once the door had closed behind them.  Cas folded his hands in his lap and said “I always wanted to be close to you in this way.”

Dean shifted heavily on his feet, a burst of nerves and something else making him fidgety.  He wanted to look away, but he forced himself to meet Cas’s honest, earnest blue eyes when he said “I always wished you’d stay.”  He took a step forward, and laid a hand on Cas’s shoulder.  “I always wanted you here with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The showers reminded her of a locker room.  Or maybe a barracks, or was that a prison?  Whatever.  The room was big and open, walled in white tile, with multiple showerheads projecting from the walls, and multiple drains denting the floor.  It was still cold and dry—she was the first.

It was with a sort of trepidation mixed with mute happiness that she sat her supplies down and turned the tap so that a rush of water clanked out of the pipes and burst into the air, hissing and then steaming.  She slipped out of her dirty tatters of clothes, or what was left of them.  She didn’t bother folding them, or handling them with any sort of care.  They’d gotten her this far, yeah, but she was happy to shed them and put on something new and clean and warm after this.  So she let them fall at the edge of the spread of water, soon to be discarded.

She knew that a shower could be like a baptism, though she’d never had those sorts of thoughts before the world decided to end.  But she was grateful for the thought, now.  She’d done some fucked up things in her life—she’d done some fucked up things in her quest to survive.  But all that was in her past, now.  So she stepped, naked and shivering, under the spray of hot water, and let it wash the dirt and grime and sweat and fear and blood away.

And hell, Kevin had even found some peach scented shampoo on one of his raids.  Later, she’d quietly laugh to herself over Daryl or Rick smelling of peaches, but right now, she was just thankful that she didn’t smell like desperation, or death anymore.

She lathered and rinsed, and then did it again just for the hell of it.  She stood under the water for a long time, still amazed and utterly grateful that a place like this existed.  She hadn’t showered properly in more than a year.  It felt like a lifetime.

After, Tara pulled on the new clothes that Kevin had given her—sweatpants and a white t-shirt—and she marched down the hall to find out how she could be of service.

 

* * *

 

 

They should have been too exhausted to sit around the table, talking and celebrating.  Should have been too tired for any of it.  But Dean knew that people could usually summon the energy they needed when it came to eating.  And so yeah, the food wasn’t 5 stars—it was a mix of ramen and random garnishing, but they got to eat it slow, at a table, with their family surrounding them in the safety of their home.  It was surreal.  It was impossible.  It was perfect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She never thought she’d get to enjoy the feel of clean sheets and a soft, warm bed again.  And yet, here she lay, curled in the softness of a twin bed, with the members of her makeshift family ranged around her.  She was pretty sure the others were already sleeping, but she couldn’t seem to make herself close her eyes yet.

It was too much to take in.  The food, and clean clothes, and space.  The alarms, and weapons, and walls.  A safety that seemed too good to be real.  They’d had this before, or at least something like it, at the prison.  That had been a long time ago—forever, really.  And yet, something about this felt different.  Real.

Michonne turned on her side, so that she could see her weapons resting at the foot of her bed, and she allowed herself to breathe out slowly, to relax.

She knew that this was as safe as some of these people had ever been, even before.  So she wouldn’t question too much.  She’d just trust that they were safe, for real, for the first time since God decided to tear his own house down.

She closed her eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beth opened her eyes.  She couldn’t sleep.  It was the fourth time it’d happened since she laid her head down and decided to rest.  She figured it was probably about 3 am by now, but who was counting?

The other women snored around her, and she was happy for them.  Happy for the peace and rest that they were able to find, finally.  But she wasn’t ready to rest.  Not yet.  Her mind wouldn’t accept that it was real, that they were safe.  Her body wouldn’t agree to remain still.

So, in the darkness of the room, she slipped quietly from the top bunk above Sasha, and exited the room.  The hallway was lit by automatic lights that she hoped never ever went out.  The rest of the bunker was lit more brightly—she wondered if it was by design, or by habit.  Who knew, really, when these people were used to battling everything that went bump in the night?

She had no purpose, really, except to wander, and yet, her feet carried her to the edge of a patch of brightness that ended up being a library.  She wasn’t surprised, really, to find someone else awake as well.

His dark head was bent over a mess of books, ranged two or three thick on the table around him, and his hand moved across a notebook frantically scrawling notes.  She stood in the doorway for a moment, simply watching without bothering.  His spine was pulled tight with tension, his hair mussed from running his hands through it so many times, his sleeves pushed up to reveal tense, shaky forearms.  He looked like the others after a good, long battle to stay alive.

It was at least ten minutes later that he noticed her.  His pen scratched jaggedly across the page when he realized he wasn’t alone, and his dark eyes widened—in fear, shock, maybe—and then he gulped and said “What are you doing here?  It’s late.”

Beth shrugged and ambled into the room, pulled out a chair, and plunked herself down across from Kevin Tran.  “Couldn’t sleep.  What about you?”

Kevin laughed, but the sound was ragged, broken, half-crazy.  “I can never sleep.  There’s too much to do.”

Beth skimmed her fingers across the spine of an ancient book.  “I could help?”

“No offense, but I don’t think you’d know what you’re looking for.  It’s some pretty ancient lore.”

Beth shrugged, not offended.  “I could just keep you company, then?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Why not?”

Kevin shifted and sat up straight, averting his eyes finally.  “Look, uh….”

“Beth.”

“Beth.  I’m sure you’re a very nice girl, but, uh… I’m not the best conversationalist.  I don’t think I’m a very nice person to be around anymore.”

“So then we won’t talk.  I’ll just sit here, and you can keep working.”

Kevin narrowed his eyes at her.  “It’s just… I feel like I should warn you.  It was rough, for a while, for me.  I’m pretty fucked up now.”

Beth shrugged, and offered him a soft, ironic smile “Ain’t we all?”


	29. In the Stacks

 

 

 

Daryl whistled—a high, sharp sound that echoed once, twice, on the air, shivering through the new spring leaves on the trees that surrounded the bunker.  A second later, another whistle responded, and then another.  Good.  That meant Rick and Michonne were still in formation. 

Daryl turned on his heel, hitched his crossbow higher on his shoulder, and proceeded down the hill.  They hadn’t seen a walker in almost a week, but they couldn’t be too careful.  Especially not today.

They’d already done four rounds of the perimeter, but the day wasn’t through yet.  Daryl sort of missed the days of cell phones—not that he’d ever been the type to carry one.  But he figured the option would’ve been nice, now.  After all, there were 24 hours in a given day, all a viable option for a singular date, and that was assuming that all went according to plan. 

He figured they’d probably end up doing another few rounds before they could go back in.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He hummed quietly, and swayed to his own tune.  The bunker was a vast dance floor, and it was shaped perfectly so that he could wind through the hallways, and in between stacks, doing little chores as he went, but still managing to stay out of the way.

Tyreese had never imagined his life would turn out like this. 

People had always been wary of him, afraid because he was tall and broad, and had the muscles of a man who did physical work for a living.  His deep voice brought others to caution, but only because they never bothered to look closer.  His dark, deep-set eyes were soft and full of emotion.  His large, rough hands held every single thing with awareness and care.

And now he held Judith’s tiny, fragile body against his chest, and swayed with her.  She loved when he hummed—she could feel the notes vibrating through their chests, and it always seemed to quiet her.  She giggled when he twirled, and curled her little fists in the cotton of his shirt.

Tyreese had never imagined his life would turn out like this, but right now, he was happy.

 

* * *

 

 

Rick’s boot scuffed on some leaf litter and he paused.  Daryl’s whistle echoed through the trees.  He whistled back.  Everything was clear. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean gasped and turned his head to the side, granting Cas more access to the tender flesh of his throat.  He could feel the biting tug of teeth, followed quickly after by the soft, wet laving of his lover’s tongue.  This was going to leave another mark.  Kevin would never let them hear the end of it.

“Dean,” Cas growled, as he pushed closer, making room for himself by hauling one of Dean’s legs up to wrap around his waist, followed closely by the other.  “I want to stay.”

Dean shivered and allowed Cas to press him even more tightly to the wall.  Cas was still strong enough to manhandle him, even without his Grace.  It gave Dean the good kind of chills.  He moaned low in the back of his throat and murmured “We have time.” 

They’d make time. 

 

* * *

 

 

Gravel crunched under their tires as they took the corner sharply.  They were behind schedule, now racing the sun down.  They had to make it back before dark.

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel settled himself in his usual seat at the table and pulled a book of ninth century Germanic lore into his hands.  The rest of the table was quiet, tense as always, but Kevin still stopped to smirk knowingly at him as he settled.  Castiel just quirked his brow in reply—Kevin had no place to talk.  Castiel had stumbled upon he and Beth sitting alone in the library at night on more than one occasion, and the two always looked content and friendly.  And maybe it was only that—but maybe it was more.  Either way, Castiel was happy for the young, over-burdened Prophet of the Lord.

Sam sighed and shut his book, his eyes turning toward the wall, where there might have been a window if they weren’t currently underground.  Next to him, Gabriel softly reached out a hand, and said “There’s no sense in worrying.  They’ll be back soon enough, safe and sound.”

Sam nodded and swallowed.  “I know, but… what if….”

“No time for ‘what ifs,’” The priest murmured, patting Sam’s hand.  “They always come back.  They always will.”

Sam sighed and cracked the book open once more.  They still had a lot to get through.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was late getting to the kitchen—of course, he knew he would be, when he’d moaned and allowed Cas to peel his pants off him, slowly, one leg at a time.  Still, he didn’t miss the cheeky smirk that Carl flung his way, and there was definitely no ignoring Tara’s blunt “Nice hickey, Dean.”

He shrugged, blushing, and tried not to grin when he said “Eh, shaddup.”  Then he glanced around the kitchen at their supplies, and rubbed his hands together.  “Alright, kiddos, so what’s on the menu for today?”

Carl shrugged and waved at the counter.  “We’ve got Spam, Dean.”

Dean chuckled.  “Alright then, young Padawan.  Looks like today the two of you are gonna learn to make Spam burgers.”

Tara wrinkled her nose.  “Really?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Dean laughed, as he got to pulling the cans open, “I’ve faced worse challenges than this in a motel kitchen.  We’ve got the hookup here.”

“I still don’t know why the three of us are stuck in here,” Carl mumbled.  “We can fight.  We’re good fighters.”

“Sure.  But you can be a badass and still know how to cook a mean burger, you know what I mean?”

Carl grumbled “I guess.”

Tara glanced between the two and rolled her eyes, before clapping and saying “Alright then, captain.  Show us the ways of magical Spam.”

Dean smirked.  “That’s more like it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Michonne narrowed her eyes to focus on the gloom—there was barely a blaze of light left on the horizon, where the sun had set just a few minutes before.  There, in the distance, she could see a trail of dust kicked up on the air.  And… there!  Yes, the roar of an engine.  She whistled long and low.  The boys responded.

The team was home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sasha and Carol pulled the jeep around to the back entrance, where the others waited to help them unload supplies.  The two women were exhausted from lack of sleep, and sticky with sweat from the hard run they’d been forced to make that morning when they’d awoken to find a herd of walkers on their tail.  But they were home now, and as soon as the supplies were unloaded, Carol at least planned on taking a long, hot shower to reward herself for a job well done.

The only downside to living in one place, as far as Carol could tell (besides getting stir crazy) was that you had to travel further for supplies as time went on.  And they had to raid surrounding towns for supplies by now.  But it was no problem.  She and Sasha were pros at it at this point.  And they both felt the need to get the hell out of those walls every couple weeks.  No big deal.  The rest of them had it covered, and they had a system down now.

Still, as Carol climbed out of the vehicle, she was happy to see her family waiting for her.  Glenn held his clipboard in his hands, ready to log all of their supplies.  Beth and Maggie stood next to him, ready to take care of their more delicate requests—mostly medical supplies, since according to them, the sickbay had been starting to look pretty sparse.

Sam swept Sasha up into his arms as soon as her feet hit the ground, and she laughed and allowed him to coddle her for a moment.  Carol rolled her eyes good naturedly. 

It was good to be home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The easiest part was falling into a routine.  Allowing their days to flow into one, accepting their new roles in this new life.  Laughing and cooking and cleaning and living.  Raiding and reading and searching for a way to save the world.  Loving and allowing themselves to be loved.

The days flowed together into a long string of moments.  Maggie and Glenn announcing that they were having a baby.  Dean and Cas making love.  Over and over and over again.  Sam and Sasha holding hands.  Carol telling the others that she needed to leave, sometimes, but that she’d always come back.  Daryl carving little toys for Judith in his spare time.  Kevin sometimes seeing things that weren’t there.  Beth holding his hand to bring him back to reality again.

Yeah.  The easiest part was falling into a routine.

The hardest part was accepting that this, right here, was life, and that they were maybe gonna be okay after all.


	30. Hope

 

 

It was 11:00 in the afternoon.  He hadn’t slept for more than a day.  The buzz of voices echoed dully against the walls.

His hand hovered over the page, trembling, while the other paused in a swipe through his hair.  He looked up, eyes wide in the too-bright library.  The others were around, somewhere.  Some of them, a lot of them, were close enough to hear.

Kevin’s voice wobbled, and cracked, when he called “Guys… I think I found something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it, folks! It was a long, hard road--for them, and for me. At times, I wasn't sure we'd make it through to this point. But here we are. I hope you all enjoyed the story. Feedback is always appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are love, and you can find me here: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/
> 
> If you really enjoyed, you could decide to buy me a coffee here: http://ko-fi.com/A3479Y5


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